


Ocean's Two:  An Untold Episode in the Life of Wendy Corduroy

by William_Easley



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Adventure, Crime, Family, Hurt/Comfort, caper story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:55:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28070532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/William_Easley/pseuds/William_Easley
Summary: In the summer of 2012, Stan persuades Wendy to join him in pulling off the heist of the century in a story based on remarks Alex Hirsch made regarding unused story ideas. Complete in 9 chapters.
Comments: 20
Kudos: 31





	1. Grounded

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own the show Gravity Falls or any of the characters. They are the property of the Walt Disney Company and of the show's creator, Alex Hirsch. I earn no money from writing my fanfictions; I do them out of love for the show, for practice writing, and to amuse myself and, I hope, other readers.

**Ocean's Two**

_**An Untold Episode in the Life of Wendy Corduroy** _

**By William Easley**

_(June 23-July 1, 2012)_

* * *

"We had an idea where Stan and Wendy would team up for a museum heist . . . "

-Alex Hirsch

* * *

**1-Grounded**

"Wendy!" roared Manly Dan. "Don't you step out that door. Set down! Now!"

Wendy froze with her hand on the doorknob and the door open just wide enough to let in the piney scent of the woods. "Not now, Dad. I gotta go help rebuild the Shack. Stan needs me."

Her statement sounded plausible. Not long before, Li'l Gideon had partly wrecked the Mystery Shack when he stole the deed from Stan and claimed ownership. Now crews were at work re-roofing and shoring up the place. Stan really could have used Wendy's help—not that she'd planned to offer it, or even to report to him that morning. Not when her crew had some mischief planned.

"Mr. Pines can wait," Dan said. "Shut the door." Wendy, angry as only a fifteen-year-old can be, did as he said, then flopped herself onto the sofa, crossing her arms. Dan loomed over her. "OK, Mr. Pines says you can come back to work, and he ain't even gonna dock you for the days the Mystery Shack was closed. That means you don't have to go work up north at Steve's lumber camp. But that ain't a sure thing."

"What?" Wendy asked, resisting an urge to yell. "Dad, you promised! I've kept my side of the bargain—"

Dan wagged a finger. "You messed up Sheriff Blubs's public-service announcement yesterday," Dan rumbled. "He showed me the tape. I recognized you a-hangin' out of that Tompkins boy's car window! You're just lucky I didn't shoot my mouth off and identify you. You coulda landed in jail for that!"

"It was just a prank," Wendy muttered. "We didn't hurt anything. Besides, it was a patrol car, and his name's Thompson, not-"

"I don't care!" Dan snapped in a tone that rattled the windows. "Young lady, you're grounded!"

"So I can't go to my job?" Wendy asked, her face flushing red.

"I didn't say that! But for the next month you got to be under adult supervision!" He made her wince. Manly Dan had essentially two volume levels: _off_ and _eleven_.

"How am I supposed to—"

"I'll talk to Mr. Pines! You can go from the house to the Mystery Shack and you can come back home, but for a month, that's it! And me or Mr. Pines will keep an eye on you. No foolin' around with them slackers you call your friends!"

"But—"

Dan crossed his arms, mimicking her. "But me no buts! Now if you don't wanna spend the rest of the summer loggin', then go on to your job. And call me the minute you get there. And I want to talk to Mr. Pines!"

"Dad—"

"It's that or the lumber camp. Take it or leave it!"

Wendy took a deep breath and managed not to say anything foolish. She got up, stomped into the kitchen, slapped together a couple of sandwiches, packed them in a paper bag, and went outside. It was a warm morning, bound to try for hot as the hours passed by. In the early sun, she rolled her bike up to the road, climbed on it, and set off for the Shack, still on the boil.

The bike ride to the Shack took a little less than half an hour. Yellow plastic tape—CONSTRUCTION ZONE DO NOT CROSS HARD HAT ZONE DO NOT CROSS—fenced in the log structure, and hand-lettered signs tacked to the wall warned CLOSED FOR RENOVATION.

Straddling her bike, Wendy took out her phone and speed-dialed Tambry.

"Hey, girl!" Tambry's voice said. "We're gonna all meet at—"

"I can't come along," Wendy said. She told Tambry about Dan's unfair decree.

"Sucks majorly," Tambry said. "A whole month?"

"Yeah, unless I can cool him down. Wish I could go with you guys."

"Aw, you sound like you need some cuddlin'."

"I could use it. But not until I can calm Dad down. Gotta go. You guys have fun."

Wendy got off her bike, rolled it along toward the Shack, and ducked under the tape. No sooner had she leaned it on the kickstand than Stan's gruff voice called from inside the Shack, "Hey, Wendy! In here."

She found Stan in the stripped-down gift shop, house phone in hand. "Your dad wants to speak to you." He handed her the receiver.

"What is it?" Wendy muttered into the phone. "I was just about to call you on my phone —"

Her dad's booming voice interrupted: "Yeah, that way you coulda called from anywhere. I wanted to make sure you're where you're s'posed to be. This afternoon, Stan's gonna call me the minute you leave for home. And half an hour later, you better be walkin' through our front door! Understand?"

"Yeah," Wendy said, trying to avoid Stan's gaze.

"This is for your own good," Dan said before hanging up.

Shaking a little from anger, Wendy, hung up the Shack phone.

"Trouble?" Stan asked.

"Dad's mad at me," Wendy said in a choked whisper. "I'm grounded. I don't care."

The echoing sound of hammering came from overhead. "They're fixin' the roof this morning," Stan explained loudly. "Then they'll have to re-shingle tomorrow. Soos is helpin' repair the inside of the attic bedroom so's Dipper and Mabel can sleep up there again. You and me—today we're takin' inventory."

"Didn't we do that like twice already this summer?" Wendy asked with a groan. Inventory was about the most boring job imaginable.

"That was before Li'l Gideon tossed everything in a big heap out back. It's gonna be a lot of walkin' back and forth, a lotta haulin' and countin', but it has to be done."

"Great," Wendy said between clenched teeth. She set her lunch bag down on the shelf beneath the cash register. "Where are Dipper and Mabel? They can help."

"Nah, Mabel's stayin' over with Grenda until the attic is OK to use again. I got Dipper on duty cleaning the rugs. Gotta get that Gideon smell out of the place. Come on, Wendy, you and me."

The Gleefuls had tossed all the merch out onto a sprawling pile behind the Shack. It was a mess—but fortunately they'd had no rain, and though jumbled, everything was dry. Dipper, or more likely Soos, had strung up a line between two trees, and an area rug hung over it. Dipper, looking sweaty and dusty, was slapping it with a carpet beater. He glanced around and gave Wendy a weak smile.

"Hey, hey!" Stan barked at his nephew. "No phonin' it in! I wanna hear that swack-swack-swack!"

"OK," Dipper grunted, swinging the beater and raising a gray cloud of dust.

"Tell ya what," Stan said to Wendy. "I'm gonna go drag out a couple big boxes. It'll be more efficient if we load 'em up and haul 'em in. Hang here a minute."

Wendy went over to Dipper. "Sucks, man," she muttered.

Pausing in his assault on the rug, Dipper sneezed. "Yeah. I have dust in my ears, dust in my nose, dust in my eyes. If Grunkle Stan would buy a good vacuum cleaner—hey, what's wrong?"

"Aw," she admitted, "I'm in trouble with Dad. He grounded me 'cause he thinks I've been hanging out with my crew too much. I can't go anywhere but here and home for a whole month!"

"That's terrible!" Dipper said.

"Yeah, and we didn't even do anything that bad. Just boosted the Sheriff's patrol car an' hid it in the lot over at Yumberjack's! I mean, they found it after only two hours of searching. And we didn't hurt anything. Hey, Dip, I'd help you if I could, but Stan's got me on inventory control. Or do you want to swap?"

Dipper sneezed again. "I don't even want to ask him. He's in a rotten mood."

Stan came out with two big heavy cardboard boxes that once had held bottles of bourbon. "I'm not a drunk!" he said as he tossed them down beside the small mountain of merch. "But if you ever gotta move and need boxes, go to a liquor store for 'em. They'll give 'em away free, and there's no roaches or bug eggs in 'em. Dipper, you take five minutes and go get yourself a drink of water. Five!"

"Thanks," Dipper said. "I don't suppose Wendy and I could trade jobs—"

"Nah, she knows where everything goes, and she can lift heavier stuff than you can. Four minutes and forty-five seconds! Go get your water!"

The first things Stan loaded were the snacks—candy bars, peanuts, crackers. "Huh," he said. "I think Li'l Gideon snarfed down all the chocolate, the little rat. Here, take this load in and set it in the racks, and I'll put together the next box load."

It wasn't all that heavy, but Wendy grumbled to herself as she hauled it inside. The snacks at the counter were mostly non-melty things, Life Savers and little bags of peanuts, mints and M&M's, peanut-butter crackers, cheese crackers, jerky, and like that. Just because she was mad, Wendy dumped two packs of crackers and four Life Saver rolls into her lunch bag. Stan came in with his box, mostly small souvenirs and trinkets. "Good," he said. "Now take the inventory sheet there—the yellow one's for snacks—and check off each item and write down how many."

"I hate this," Wendy said. "I'd rather be beating the rugs."

"Yeah, but Dan wants me to keep a close eye on you," Stan said. "Sorry you got on his bad side, but ride it out, kid. Give him a week, he'll simmer down and commute your sentence."

"Huh, I don't think so," Wendy said as she noted the number and flavors of Life Savers in the rack. She did not account for the ones she'd dropped into her lunch bag.

"Let it go, Wendy. Dan loves you. In his own mean, rough way. OK, put these bobbleheads and snow globes and junk over there where they usually go, and then same deal with the inventory sheet. The green ones this time. I'll get another couple loads."

"Men," Wendy growled. Of course Stan would side with her dad. She dumped the souvenirs on the counter, handed Stan the empty box, and started to arrange the merchandise on the shelves. Evidently Li'l Gideon had tossed out both the things already on display with everything from the stock room because there were too many bobbleheads and snow globes to fit.

With a disgruntled sigh, she took off her trapper's hat, put two Mr. Mystery bobbleheads and one snow globe inside it, and set the hat on the shelf next to her lunch. She put another couple of dozen tchotchkes back in the storeroom, just as Stan lugged a full box in for her to start on.

The day went by like that. At noon, Stan stretched and said, "Yard's clear. OK, Soos and I gotta drive to the wholesalers' to get the ice creams and Popsicles for the cooler. We'll grab a burger or somethin' for us. Wendy, you and Dip take an hour for lunch, and after that, finish checking off the inventory sheets. Don't leave the place. I'll ask Dipper, and you know he can't lie."

"I won't leave," Wendy said. But she was thinking, _First chance I get—_

Dipper came in, washed his gritty hands and face at the kitchen sink, and then rummaged in the fridge. "What do you want to eat?" He called to Wendy.

"Made a couple of bologna sandwiches," she said.

He waited for her to add something, and when she didn't, he offered, "We've got some leftover roast beef. Rather split that?"

"Yeah, I guess so." Despite herself, she gave him a little smile. Dipper was always offering to do stuff for her. OK, he was a guy, but she could give him a pass because he tried to be considerate. "Let's have the roast beef, dude."

"OK, I'll heat it up. I'll get us a couple of Pitt's from the machine on the porch—"

"Nah, I'll get 'em." Wendy took her two sandwiches from the lunch bag, plus the security key for the vending machine, and went out to the gift-shop porch. For some reason, Li'l Gideon hadn't removed the drink machine. Waddles trotted up, grunting. "Mabel'll be back soon," Wendy assured him. "Meanwhile, here you go." She tossed the sandwiches, which Waddles gratefully ate.

 _Hope that was beef bologna, not pork,_ Wendy thought. She unlocked the drink machine and checked the coin bin. Nothing in it. Gideon probably cleaned that out. However, the machine was three-quarters full of canned sodas, and she took two before closing and re-locking the door. On the way back she scored a couple bags of potato chips from the snack vending machine, also for the employee's discount of 100%, providing Stan didn't notice.

Dipper was in the kitchen, with shredded roast beef and about a half-cup of gravy sizzling in a pan. "Open-faced sandwiches?" he asked.

"Yeah, sounds good." She opened the pantry. "Umm, is sourdough bread OK?"

"Fine."

They sat at the table and popped their drinks, then opened the chip bags. The sandwiches were fork-food, so they munched and drank. "I'm glad Stan got the Shack back," Dipper said. "Now I don't have to go home to Piedmont and, um. Miss you."

"You wouldn't be missing much, dude," Wendy said with a sour smile. "Man, you don't know how it feels, being fifteen. Nearly almost grown-up but not quite. You still get bossed around like a little kid."

"Wish there was something I could do to help."

Wendy sighed. "Maybe Stan's right. He says if I wait it out for a week and don't piss Dad off again, it'll be OK, and I'll get ungrounded."

"I gotta go to Soos's place tonight," Dipper said. "They're gonna be working on the attic ceiling all day tomorrow, and Soos is working late. He wants me to go grocery shopping with his Abuelita. He has to spend so much time over here right now that he can't. Anyhow, he's staying here tonight to replace the main beam that got cracked when the wrecking ball tore the roof open, and I guess I'll be over on the far side of town, protecting Abuelita."

By the time they cleaned up the table, the saucepan, and the utensils, Stan and Soos pulled into the parking lot. Soos donned his tool belt and hurried back upstairs, while Stan quickly restocked the ice-cream freezer. There were other things to do until five o'clock came. The workmen from the roof piled into their trucks and drove away.

A minute later, Stan put his hands on his hips and surveyed the gift shop. "Lookin' almost back to normal," he said. "Might as well call it a day."

"It's not six o'clock yet," Wendy pointed out.

"Yeah, but you worked hard. I'll call Dan, like he wants, and let him know you'll be home soon."

"I really don't want to. Dad and the boys won't be home until seven or later, so I'll be by myself."

"Eh, sack out, watch some TV, read a good magazine. Here you go."

"No—" Wendy said, but Stan had reached under the counter to take out Wendy's hat and the lunch bag.

Stan, looking puzzled, pulled out a bobblehead the snow globe from the hat, and then looked inside the bag and shook out an assortment of candy bars and snacks. "Wendy, did you shoplift this stuff? Right under my nose?"

Wendy couldn't help it. She started to sob from pent-up tension, anger, and worry. "Mr. Pines, I didn't mean to, I was just mad, please don't tell my dad. He'll kick me out for sure, and, and I can't go to Steve's lumber camp! Please don't tell him. I'll never do it again, I swear."

"Hey, hey," Stan said. "Calm down. You stole this stuff from right under my nose!"

Wendy hated blubbering, but she couldn't stop. "I don't know why I did it, I'm just so upset and, and—please, please don't tell Dad!"

"No, no, keep the candy and stuff, it's yours, keep it," Stan said. He jerked out five tissues and handed them to her. "Don't cry. Here." He got a grape Freezy Pop from the cooler. "Here, go ahead, take this, on the house, calm down, OK? I'm not mad at you, and I won't tell Dan."

After blowing her nose on the wad of tissues, Wendy took the Popsicle from him. It was such a weird gesture on Stan's part that she almost wanted to laugh, if only she could stop crying first. "Please," she said again in a small voice.

"Wendy, calm down. You don't understand. You're good at stealin' stuff—you could rob me blind before I caught on! Wendy, you got a gift! I've been lookin' for somebody like you all my life! Here's the deal. I'll get you off the hook with Dan, all right? I'll give you some training, and then you and me, we're gonna do something big together, something great!"

"What?" she asked.

He grinned and rubbed his hands together. "You and me," he said, "are gonna pull off an epic heist!'

* * *


	2. Training Montage

**Ocean's Two**

(June-July 2012

* * *

**2-Training Montage**

Imagine a hard-driving, wicked electric lead guitar backed up by a pulsing beat, OK?

And a woman singer with a throaty, driving voice, Shirley Bassey or even better Janice Joplin, or still better yet a cross between the two of them! Oh, yeah! Now just listen:

* * *

_Girl, time to show you're better than any boy!_

_Time to show 'em you're a flipping Corduroy!_

_Stealth and brains and light fingers gonna feature,_

_Listen to Stan, world-class con artist teacher,_

_The two of you make a team!_

_Yeah, go, girl, and grab that dream!_

_When it comes time to break in and rob,_

_You just know these two will do the job!_

_They got the dream, they're the team,_

_They're the dream team!_

_They're the dre-e-eam team!_

* * *

Meh, it's better with the vocals and the music and the _tissh-wahh_ of the cymbals and the bassist doing that James Bond riff, you know, the one that's so evil and suggestive.

Anyway.

The next morning, Stan sent Soos, a very punchy Dipper (Soos and Abuelita's house had a weird high-pitched hum that kept him awake as he lay on the sofa), and an excited Mabel on a mission to specialty stores in Portland to buy materials to replace the MYSTERY SHACK sign—not only the all-weather pressure-treated boards and framing for the MYSTERY part, but also the thick all-weather plywood from which the SHACK letters would be jig-sawed.

Plus Stan told them to find the exact shade of red and yellow paint for the sign ("My department!" Mabel announced), the hardware needed, oh, yeah, one of the lights was totaled, so take in the survivor and see if DeLuca Lighting Center, Bar, and Grill can duplicate it, and don't take their first offer, bargain 'em down by at least twenty per cent, hear me?

As soon as they had rattled away down the drive in Soos's pickup, bound on an all-day mission, Stan called Lupe, the foreman of the roofing team, over and said, "Look, I'm gonna check every couple hours. I want the shingles up by five, OK?"

"Yeah, no problem," Lupe said.

"And if you finish early, you guys can take off. Here." Stan tucked a couple of twenties into the bib pocket of Lupe's overalls. "Have a beer on me, right?"

"Works for me," Lupe said agreeably. Both he and Stan knew the crew would be out of there by noon, latest, but even at that, the roof would be shingled.

Stan, humming, strolled into the Shack. Wendy sat at the counter, not in her usual lazy sprawl, but upright on the stool, looking tense. "What did you tell Dad?" she demanded.

"He treatin' you better?"

"Yeah—but this morning he's smirking at me! And he's acting like you're gonna punish me or whatever. But he said he's gonna stop checking up on me every five minutes, and I can thank you. So what did you tell him?"

"That I'm gonna work you to a frazzle," Stan said. "Listen, tonight you gotta go home dragging, you understand? Like I drove you like a sumpter mule."

A puzzled line appeared between Wendy's eyebrows. "A what?"

"I dunno, it was just something to say! Hey, I got somethin' for you." Stan went into the Employees Only room and brought back a rectangular cardboard box. "Go to the john and try these on. They oughta fit."

Wendy took the box suspiciously, but she went to the upstairs bathroom—the attic looked about the same as it had at the beginning of the summer, but all the furniture had been pushed to one side, the place had a new-wood smell, and she could hear the workers laying and tacking down the new shingles on the repaired roof overhead. "Oh, man," she said when she opened the box.

Five minutes later, from the top of the stair, Wendy called, "Stan, dude? I'm coming down. No wisecracks, or the whole deal is off!"

Stan waited for her in the parlor. When she came in, she asked, "How'd you even know my size?"

Gazing at her approvingly, Stan said, "Easy. You got a spare change of clothes in the staff room. I just checked the labels. How's it feel?"

"Weird. Kinda too girly but also too butch. Embarrassing." She wore a so-dark-green-it-looked-black outfit, and it was, like, skin-tight. Dark Spandex top and pants, black fingerless gloves, soft black shoes, even a black ski cap that she wore like a toboggan hat at the moment, though it could pull down into a ski mask.

"Looks good on you," Stan said, grinning.

Wendy scowled. "Looks creepy."

With a wider grin, Stan said, "Ya think? Wear it and show Dipper. Betcha ten bucks it'd make him a drooling, babbling idiot!"

"No takers," Wendy said.

Stan got up and walked slowly around her, inspecting. "Seriously, it's practical. We're gonna burgle a joint, see? Get in, do the job, get out quick and unseen. No sleeves or cuffs to snag, get it? Like a couple Ninjas, so we gotta dress like Ninjas."

She waggled her fingers. "How about prints?"

Stan shrugged. "Under those gloves, you were real thin silk gloves. That lets you keep your sense of touch, but it also keeps you from leaving fingerprints. Come in here."

He led her into the gift shop. He sat where she usually did, at the counter, and turned his back to her. "You walk into the parlor and then come back again—wait!—and make sure you make no noise comin' or goin'."

She took a step.

"I can hear you," Stan said evenly.

Biting her lip, she took three steps more.

"Now you're breathin' too loud," Stan said. "You're holding your breath. Don't do that, it makes you gasp a little when you inhale. Swing your leg forward and put your whole sole down with each step, don't come down on your heel. Woops. What was that?"

"Squeaky board," Wendy said.

"Yeah. You _know_ there's a board there that covers the place where I hide tax records and court summonses and such. Memorize where it is and avoid it. Try again."

It gradually became a game, and Wendy got better and better by the minute. Finally Stan, swiveled to face the door out to the parking lot, with the window over his right shoulder, pretended to be reading a newspaper, and Wendy's job was to sneak up on him and touch his shoulder without his hearing or seeing her move.

He had boosted his hearing aid to max. He could hear every small crinkle as he read the business section of the _Oregonian._ He could hear the workmen nailing down the cedar shingles—though their hammering was less loud than it had been when they were replacing the broken or cracked rafters, outriggers, and plywood sheathing the day before. He could hear the faint hum of the ice-cream cooler. Even the muted drumming of woodpeckers.

But he didn't hear—

"Booyah!" Wendy put both hands on his shoulders. "Gotcha!"

"Hah!" Stan laughed. He stood up and turned around. "Good job. That's passable. Now go out and come back in so's I can see how you did it."

"You're not gonna believe it, man."

"Yeah, well, try me. 'Scuse me for a second." He turned down the volume on his hearing aid. "You were sounding like your old man there."

"Ew!"

"Go show me."

Wendy walked to the family door—Stan noted approvingly that even without appearing to concentrate, she skirted the squeaky boards—and then called, "Ready or not, here I come."

She swiveled around the doorjamb, back flat against the wall opposite Stan. Then—

She turned to face the wall, gripped the wall boards, and pulled her feet clear of the ground. With fingers and toes lodged in cracks she clung on and moved on the wall like a gecko until she reached the corner, then silently dropped a few inches to the floor. "Boards here are solid and real quiet," she said. "Next."

She edged to the snack vending machine, reached up to grab the top, and lifted herself by her arms until she could brace one foot against the jamb of the Employees Only door, then wormed onto the top of the machine. Standing, she could reach the roof beams. She lifted herself until she could lock forearms and her legs around the beam, then sloth-walked upside-down to the crossbeam, turned, let go with her legs, and dropped down to the spot from which she had startled Stan.

Stan whistled. "I had no idea you were so strong and, I guess, agile?"

"Lumberjack games, dude," Wendy said. "Dad put me through the wringer learnin' how until I ruled at them. Some time I'll show you how I climb a greased pole!"

"Yeah, well, we're gonna have to tie that long hair back so's it don't hang down and tangle or anything. And one other thing mighta helped," Stan said, rubbing his chin. "But I'm out of 'em."

"What's that?"

"Grappling hook," he said. "Come on, I want to take you out in the woods and let you show off a little more. Lumberjack, huh?"

"Uh-uh, man, Not in this get-up."

"C'mon, those are your workin' clothes now!"

"Yeah, and there're four guys standin' up on the roof. You ever been cat-called and whistled at by guys, dude?"

Stan shrugged. "Eh, twice." When Wendy stared at him, he said, "OK, I was younger and in better shape. But I just ignored—"

"You're not a fifteen-year-old girl," Wendy said firmly. "Not goin' in this catsuit, and that's final."

Stan thought for a moment. "I got a way to fix that."

* * *

"Dude," Wendy complained a few minutes later, "This thing's gonna swallow me whole!"

"Try it on," Stan insisted. "It's just long, like a duster."

He held the shabby trench coat up while she shrugged into it. It hung to her ankles. "This is yours?" she asked, rolling back the sleeves. "Never seen you in it."

"Nah, it belonged—belongs—to somebody else. He was—is—about my size though."

"You sound hoarse, man."

"Little dust got in my throat."

* * *

They walked down the Mystery trail. When they were well out of sight of the Shack, Stan found a tall tree, with no branches for thirty feet straight up. "You can climb this?"

"Easy," Wendy said. "Have to take off this coat, though."

"Don't drop it on the ground," Stan said. "Here, I'll hold it."

"Wait a second." She pulled the belt loose and handed the garment to Stan, who carefully folded it over his arm. "What's the deal? It's ratty."

"The owner might come back for it," Stan said. "I don't know what kind of tree this is—"

"Ponderosa pine," Wendy told him.

"Whatever. If you can climb up as far as where the limbs begin, we're in business."

"Watch me."

Wendy slapped the belt around the trunk—it was just long enough to reach—and holding it in both hands, she walked herself up the trunk. "How's that?"

"Can you get down?"

She called down in a panicky voice, "Nah, dude, you gotta climb up and help me."

"Then you're stuck!"

Laughing, Wendy taunted, "Dipper would!"

"Yeah, he'd sure try—and most likely break his neck."

"No sweat, man, I was kidding."

She came down until she was about eight feet off the ground, then pushed off and landed with knees bent and one hand outthrust to break her fall.

"Super, girl," Stan sad approvingly.

She grinned wickedly. "I always like Catwoman better."

* * *

Later—after the workmen had left and Wendy had changed clothes—Stan drove them to a junkyard outside the Valley, where cars and car parts lay scattered. Stan slipped the one guy guarding the yard a twenty to go away for forty-five minutes. "But first show me which of these junkers can even start."

There were six. None was roadworthy, and they all had fatal problems—missing axles, smashed frames, whatever—but they all possessed engines, and the guy said they'd turn over. He left them with a battery and said he'd be back in three-quarters of an hour.

Stan picked out an ancient, battered pickup and hooked up the battery. "You got that little knife I gave you for your birthday?"

"Right here." Wendy took it from its concealed sheath in her belt.

"Ever hot-wired a car?"

She shook her head. "Nope. Saw Nate do it once."

"Here we go. Just do everything that I say."

Stan didn't do anything but sit in the cracked passenger seat and instruct her. Pull this wire loose. Pull that one. This one's hot, so strip off some insulation but make sure you're not touching anything grounded. Here, wrap a little electrician's tape around the bare wire for now. Strip some of the other one. Now we gotta connect these other wires. Yeah, now a little more tape, that's right. OK, foot on the gas and now take the tape off the first one and touch that one to the bare spot—

With a cough like Greta Garbo in the last scenes of _Camille,_ the engine came to life. Wendy revved it, though it sounded rougher than an evening in the Skull Fracture. Raising her voice over the racket, Wendy asked, "How'd I do?"

"Oh, Wendy," Stan said, his voice soft and awed, "You're like the daughter I never had and never wanted, but in your case, I'd make an exception."

"What next?"

"Old Man McGucket's building something for you—"

"McGucket?" Wendy blinked. She knew him as a crazy old coot.

"Yeah, he used to be a crackerjack inventor, and he's still got the chops if you can make him understand exactly what you want. He's makin' you a skeleton remote."

"A which?"

"A little key fob that's got, I dunno, computer gizmos in it. It will be able to read the codes that modern cars need to unlock and start. That'll make boostin' cars with electronic locks, wheel locks, and ignitions easy. He says you can use in on any make, model, or Army tank. Should be ready tomorrow."

Her eyes lit up. "Cool. If it works, can I keep it?"

"No." Stan checked his watch. "Now you're gonna ride your bike home, remember you're gonna be dog-tired, and you're gonna ask Dan to tell me not to work you so hard. He'll call me, we'll laugh about it, and I'll promise to really bear down on you if you can come help with some hard stuff and maybe even stay overnight—I'll say we gotta re-do the sign and test the lights and all, and you can sleep upstairs with Mabel, and I'll make Dip sleep on the floor. But I'll swear up and down that by the time we finish, you're gonna be so wore out you'll never disobey him again. Will that do it?"

"That'll do it," Wendy said, her mood darkening and her voice turning flat.

As they drove back to the Shack, Stan said, "Wendy, listen, I'm proud of you. But pay attention, 'cause I'm serious now. Don't be too hard on Dan. I've known him for a long time. Right now you're at a place in your life where you want more independence and junk, and I sympathize with that. But don't forget, Dan's tried to be both a mom and a dad to you. Us guys—we ain't sensitive, you know? But never forget that deep down, Dan loves you."

"I guess," Wendy said, gazing out the passenger window.

"Take it from me," Stan said, his voice sorrowful. "Family. Family is more important than anything. I know. Trust me, I know."

Wendy didn't reply but just watched the countryside roll by.

* * *


	3. Don't Leave Me Hanging

**Ocean's Two**

_(July 2012)_

* * *

**3-Don't Leave Me Hanging**

That afternoon, Stan hauled out the tall platform ladder that Soos had used while working on the attic ceiling beams. It was a rental—for some reason, Stan wouldn't buy a ladder to keep permanently in the house.

With Wendy's help, he maneuvered it down the stairs and into the Museum, where the ceiling was high, and set it up in the center of the room. When it was placed and secure, Stan hesitated a moment. "Uh, I got a little problem with ladders," he confessed to Wendy. "Mind doin' this little chore for me?"

"I've come this far," Wendy said.

"Put these on." He gave her a pair of plastic safety glasses, held on by a thick elastic.

"I'm not sure I like this," she said as she donned them.

"Perfect." Stan handed her the portable drill, a heavy bit already in the chuck. "OK, I want you to climb up and fasten two of these to the central beam." He handed her a box of hefty eye screws. "Here, you'll need this, too. Put the hardware in your shirt pocket." He added a big hook—the kind you'd use to hold up a hammock—that had the last inch or so of its shaft hacksawed off.

"Uh—how deep do I have to drill?" Wendy asked as the screws and hook jingled into her pocket. "These screws are like four inches long."

"And the beam's fourteen inches deep. Next, you're gonna screw the bolts in until only the round part's showing."

"Do I want to know why?"

"Probably not, but we'll burn that bridge when we cross it."

Standing at the foot of the ladder, Wendy glanced up and frowned. "How far apart?"

Stan scratched his big nose thoughtfully. "Good question. Two feet, maybe eighteen inches. You don't need to make it exact."

Sighing, Wendy checked the platform ladder—essentially an exceptionally tall stepladder with a platform that held tools, for stability and then climbed up seventeen feet. "Here and here?" she asked, indicating two spots maybe a foot and a half apart, maybe a little more.

"Looks good from here. First drill the pilot holes. As straight in as you can, and in the middle of the wood."

Trying to put them in the center of the exposed face of the beam, Wendy drilled, leaning away so sawdust wouldn't sift down on her cheeks. "Done."

"OK, now I want you to take out the drill bit and put in the hook. Put the shaft of the hook in the chuck, drop the drill bit in your pocket."

"I don't know what this is supposed to do," she muttered, but she followed his directions and tightened the chuck. "OK."

"Now start one of the screws by hand. Keep turning it until it's bitten into the wood enough to hang straight."

"OK just a minute. Got it."

"Now put the hook through the eye of each screw and then the drill's your screwdriver. Don't try to go fast. Smooth and steady."

To Wendy's surprise, the hook spun the eye screw in right up to the top of the shaft. "Pretty neat! I'll remember this trick."

"Yeah, Soos came up with that when we were hangin' the fake pterodactyl. Finish the other one, then bring the drill down."

She did, removed the hook from the chuck, put it and the drill bit and the drill itself back into Soos's toolbox, took off the safety glasses, and dusted her hands. "What now?"

"You gotta go back up the ladder, last time. Take these four cables. Put two of 'em through each eye screw, pull them halfway through, and then lower the ends down to me."

Wendy stared at him suspiciously. "Wait a minute. You're not gonna pull me up and down like a puppet, are you?"

"Yeah, kinda. You gotta Ninja up again and also wear a harness."

"How much weight will this stuff support?"

"More than three hundred pounds. You got nothing to worry about. If you were Dan, _then_ I'd worry. Come on, don't you wanna see what it's like to fly like Peter Pan?"

"Wrong Wendy, man." Rolling her eyes, Wendy took the cables—thin, braided, very flexible, but obviously strong, each cable with a carabiner clip on each end—up the ladder and threaded them.

When she'd finished, they moved the ladder and she changed into the snug outfit again, this time buckling a leather-and-steel harness around her middle and extending up to her chest. Like a photographer's vest, the harness had a good many pockets, made of netting, on the front. The clips on the cables hooked into rings in the back of the harness; the free ends Stan attached to an electric windlass that he mounted on a heavy base. "This has a ratchet in it," he said. "When it's set, you won't go up or down until I release it. Here we go, nice and easy."

He used a remote to start the winch, the ratchet clicked, the cables tightened, and Wendy felt it lift her off the floor, tilted sharply to the left. "Whoa!"

"Yean, we gotta adjust a few things. Just a sec." He fiddled with the controls, and Wendy, who had been dangling askew, straightened out. "There. Now your feet are gonna go up. You'll have to hang upside down for this to work. Let me know if this makes you sick or giddy."

"Nothing makes me giddy," Wendy said. Then her butt and legs went up, and she saw the floor falling away. "Not so far," she added under her breath.

When her feet touched the beam, she was hanging head-downwards, nearly vertically, and she couldn't see anything on the floor.

"Yeah, I see your problem," Stan called up. "Thought so. We're gonna have to tie your hair back or something."

Wendy shook her head until her hair hung straight down. "This is better, but my hair's gonna hit the floor about four feet before my head does!"

"We'll think of a way to fix it. Here you go. Nice and easy."

The winch let her down. It was like flying, in a way, though the harness put pressure on her. When she was a foot or so above the floor, her red hair pooled below her, Stan pushed over a square metal box with a lid secured to it by eight screws.

"Here ya go," he said, handing her a screwdriver. "Your job is to unscrew the lid, take it off, and get the prize inside. Can you do that upside-down?"

"Yeah, I think I can." The screwdriver helped—it was a ratchet kind, so you twisted the screw, lefty loosen, and then the blade stayed engaged while you rotated the handle for the next turn. "Dang it."

The torque of unscrewing made her dangling body try to rotate in the opposite direction.

"Try steadying yourself with your left hand—hold onto the box—and see if that helps."

"Yeah, it does."

She removed the lid.

"Now reach into the box and take out what's inside."

Wendy did. "It's a pear," she said.

Stan, chuckling and practically doing a little jig said, "Nah. It's a great big, beautiful diamond. Or it will be!"

* * *

Again that night—late—Wendy came home groaning and complaining "Stan's gonna kill me! I'm aching from all the heavy lifting. Dad, make him stop!"

"Work'll do you good!" Dan bellowed. "You do like Mr. Pines tells you!"

She passed on dinner—Dan and the boys had been bowling and had eaten out—and went straight to bed. In fact, she and Stan had shared a pizza just before Soos and the others returned. Stan approved of all the sign materials Soos had bought and told him he'd need to return the rented ladder in the morning. "Brought it downstairs for you," he said.

"We saw the roof was shingled," Mabel said. "Why didn't you have them fix the crack?"

"What, am I made of money?" Stan snapped.

Dipper was swaying on his feet. "Need sleep," he murmured.

"Mabel," Wendy said, "you and Dip come with me, and we'll fix up your beds. You can sleep in your own room tonight."

She made Dipper, who really was about to drop, walk up ahead of her. Wendy shoved the beds into place, Mabel brought out the pillows and sheets, and when they had finished, Dipper was sitting on the floor in the corner, chin on chest, fast asleep. "He's been like that all day," Mabel confided in a whisper.

"Poor little guy." Wendy scooped him up, carried him to the bed, and lay him down, fully clothed. She took off his cap and shoes, then pulled the sheet up over him. He didn't wake up.

As they went back downstairs, Wendy said, "Mabes, little favor? Don't tell Dipper I picked him up and tucked him in. That would just embarrass him."

"I thought it was cute," Mabel said. "It was impressive, how you scooped him up without even grunting!"

"He's not so heavy," Wendy said. "Seriously, though, let him think he went to bed on his own, OK?"

"OK."

"You go, girl."

* * *

The next day, Dipper was still catching up on sleep, while Soos was building the frame for the roof sign. Mabel sat at the table with a stack of paper designing the replacement sign. "My goal," she announced, "is to make it identical to the old sign!"

Meanwhile, Stan and Wendy were in the break room, bending over a model that Stan had constructed of plastic building blocks. "This," he said, "is the Rarities wing of the history museum, OK?"

It was just a hollow rectangle of plastic bricks. In the center of it, Stan had placed a spool of thread (pilfered from Mabel's sewing basket). "This," he said, "is the case that holds the Pharaoh's Eye Diamond."

"Never heard of it," Wendy said.

"Yeah, well, Preston Northwest's grandpa or great-uncle or somebody brought it from Europe back in the 1920s, and it's worth like gazillions of dollars," Stan said. "Diamond the size of a goose egg. That's our target. Now, up here is where we're goin' in. Window that we can get in, so high up that it's not even wired into the burglar alarm system. We can get through it, and then there's like a catwalk—really it's for the light system, but you'll go out on it, plant your cables, and you'll lower down, avoiding the lasers—"

"Wait, what?"

"Didn't I mention the lasers?" Stan asked innocently, "There's like a crisscross of laser beams. You break one of 'em, the alarms go off. You gotta like thread your way through 'em. You can do it, you're, what's the word, lithe."

"I can try," Wendy said doubtfully.

"I got a little smoke machine we'll take in. That'll help, 'cause it'll make the laser beams visible."

"They're not, like, visible?" Wendy asked. "In the movies, they are."

"Real ones ain't, unless there's mist or smoke in the air," Stan said. "We gotta be careful, though, 'cause if we get too much smoke, we'll trigger the alarm then, too. So just enough to show up the red rays, no more. Anyways, you can see the laser beams on the way down and let me know when to unreel you, when to stop so you can adjust and all. Now. The diamond's on a pedestal—that's the spool—and it's enclosed in a glass cube that's secured to the pedestal with a dozen screws. You gotta have a special screwdriver to remove 'em. I got one for you. Here's the tricky part."

"I was waiting for the tricky part," Wendy said.

"Yeah, yeah. You loosen the screws, lay 'em on the edges of the pedestal, then real careful lift up the glass cube. Hold it in your left hand. It'll be about as heavy as a fishbowl. With your right hand, take the diamond off its stand—it's just sittin' there, not secured. Tuck it into the bag you'll have pinned on your harness. Bag closes with Velcro. Put the glass cube back, don't bother with the screws, I mean, just set the glass cover back in place. Then I pull you up."

"How will you know when I'm ready?"

"'Cause you'll have an earpiece-microphone combo, and I'll have a walkie-talkie. Oh, by the way, we'll use code names, just in case anybody might be listenin' in on our frequency. I'm gonna be, uh, call me Ocean. You'll be . . . Fox."

"Fox to Ocean, get me outa here," Wendy said. "Like that?"

"Yeah. The diamond, let's call that the pear. You got the pear in the pouch, the case is back in place, and up you go. Then we leave through the window, I'll take off in my car, you hotwire another car and make your getaway, and then we meet up at a place I'll tell you, and we're out and in the clear."

"There's a problem," Wendy said seriously. "That won't work."

"What is it?" Stan asked anxiously.

"I only got my learner's permit," Wendy said. "I can hotwire a car, OK. I could even steal it. But, man, me drivin' without an adult in the car with me—that's illegal, Stan."

Stan looked surprised until Wendy started to laugh, and then he joined in. "Good one!" he said. For some reason they couldn't stop laughing.

Mabel peeped in. "Am I missing out on a party?"

Wendy shook her head, grinning, "Just a Stan joke," she said.

"Yeah," Stan said. "And I can't tell it to you, 'cause it's too dirty."

"Grunkle Stan!" Mabel exclaimed in a stern voice, "I'm surprised at you. "That's . . . that's _naughty_!"

* * *


	4. Casing the Joint

**Ocean's Two**

_(June-July 2012)_

* * *

**4-Casing the Joint**

"Fox, this is Ocean. Turn halfway to your right," Stan said into his walkie-talkie. He sat in the Stanleymobile keeping his eyes on the small screen of his hand-held device. The scene shifted, and he nodded before realizing that Wendy couldn't hear a nod. "Good, good," he said. "Fox, walk over to the snack machine."

On the screen, the snack machine—standing beside the door to the Employees Only door and, incidentally, concealing the secret door to Stan's secret lair in the secret basement of the Shack—loomed into view. "Let me see," Stan said. "Fox, get closer. I'm gonna read the labels across the top row if I can." He adjusted his spectacles. "Umm, Corny Trumpetos, Crack-er-Snax, Tato Crisps, Snapbacks, and Spicy Chippos. All those right?"

Since Wendy whispered, he had to boost the volume to hear her: "Fox to Ocean. Got 'em all, man. Nailed it. How's the picture?"

"Sharp, but small. Once this is over, I'm never using one of these cockamamie mini unit things again. OK, I'll come in and we'll trade places. You'll probably be better at dealing with this communicator thing, it's a lot like a cell phone. No selfies, though!"

As far as Dipper, Mabel, and Soos were concerned, Stan and Wendy were pricing—applying price tags and stickers to the merchandise inside the shop—while the three of them were cleaning up debris still scattered on the lawns of the Shack and loading Soos's pickup with smashed metal, sign and roof fragments, and other detritus before hauling it off to the dump.

There was a lot to haul—the Gleefuls had not only smashed the sign and part of the roof, but had also tossed out various odds and ends, clocks that no longer worked, some furniture that Li'l Gideon (most likely) had broken, plus leftover pieces of metal and machinery discarded when McGucket had built the Gidieonbot. Anyway, the job promised to keep them busy all morning, which gave Stan more time to train Wendy.

In the gift shop Stan laid the communicator on the counter and Wendy took off the fake specs with plain glass lenses. A miniaturized camera/microphone was clipped to the temple. Stan removed this and clipped it to his own specs. "Too noticeable?" he asked.

"Yeah, kinda stands out," Wendy said. "You know, with me having to hang upside down an' all, I'm not gonna be able to wear glasses for the real deal."

"No problem, I'm plannin' to clip it to your ski mask instead," Stan said. "Today's my turn though, so where could I wear it that nobody would notice?"

Wendy suggested, "How about your fez? We could cut a little hole—"

"Nah, not gonna happen," Stan said. "I'd have to buy a new one from the Holy Mackerel catalogue, and they ain't cheap. Besides, the one I got's kinda special to me for sentimental reasons. Don't ask."

Wendy thought for a minute. "Maybe we could glue a little ring to the back of this gizmo, and instead of your usual red tie, you could wear like a string tie. A bolo. We got a bunch of old bootlaces at home—when Dad buys a new pair, he throws the old ones in a drawer. They're real long, and we could fix up a bolo tie and the camera could be the clip, under your chin."

"Would that fool anybody?" Stan asked doubtfully.

"Dude, it doesn't even look like a camera," Wendy said. "More like a little decorative box thing. And you can put the radio receiver in your pocket and use it like a hearing aid, so nobody'd notice."

"Yeah, might work," Stan said.

For the time being, instead of pilfering an old lace from Manly Dan's junk drawer, Stan found a pair of braided black laces, made for seven-eyelet shoes, in the small stand of tourist-needs odds and ends (sunscreen, aspirin, antacids, lip balm, mini sewing kits, Band-Aids, little bottles of aloe, and—ta-da!—shoelaces. They hot-glued a small safety pin (pilfered from one of the toy sewing kids) to the back of the camera, then ran the lace through the small opening of the spring—tight fit—and since it tended to slide down if unsecured, Wendy made a fancy barrel knot beneath the camera to hold it in place.

"How's that?" she asked.

Stan studied himself in a small mirror. "Fox, you got a lot of unexpected skills."

She laughed. "Man, I can pitch a tent, fell a tree, build a campfire, catch a fish with just a sharpened stick, dig up edible roots and gather wild berries and cook a tasty dinner before it gets dark. I can climb trees like an orangutan, jump from limb to limb like a squirrel, scare off an ornery bear, track a rabbit through the grass, and even do like fifty different dances. Plus I can sew, cook, clean, and halfway run a cash register. Too bad I'm lazy."

"Yeah, but still if I was thirty years younger, I'd ask you to marry me."

She laughed again. "Dude, you're what, sixty? You'd still be twice my age! What would happen when you got to be seventy and I'd be twenty-five, huh?"

Stan shrugged. "Guess I'd find myself another teen."

"You are a dirty old man, Mr. Ocean."

"I try, Miss Fox." Stan became serious. "You know I'm mostly kidding," he said.

"Yeah, dude, I know."

"But seriously, Wendy, you got it in you to make some guy the happiest and luckiest man in the world."

"Some guy? Maybe," she said, sounding equally serious. "Sometimes I'm just not sure."

"Well, I ain't getting any younger standing here. Is that Soos's truck I hear?"

Wendy looked out the window. "Just pulling out for the dump. Take them half an hour to empty out the truck."

"Then let's hit the road, too."

They drove downtown and Stan parked behind the History Museum. Wendy turned on the communicator. Stan stepped out of the car. "Fox, how's the camera working?"

"Hold your chin a little higher, Ocean. Yeah, better. I got a good picture of the car and me in the passenger seat. My voice coming through OK?"

"Loud 'n clear, even better than my hearing aid. I ain't gonna be able to talk to you inside, but you keep telling me what you need to look at and I'll make sure to point the camera in the right direction."

"Got you, Ocean."

"Wish me luck, Fox!"

Then Wendy slumped in the seat, not readily visible to anyone not close to the car (and no one was close, anyway), looking like your average bored teen texting on her phone. She watched the picture as Stan walked around to the entrance, went inside, and paid the nominal fee (actually a donation, a buck), and then wandered around.

Wendy kept up a commentary. "OK, Ocean, I can see what you see. Stuffed bear. Mining exhibit. Where's the Rarities room? Oh, gotcha, to the right. Yeah, I see the sign over the door. Doesn't look like you have any company."

"No," Stan murmured. "You hearing this?"

"Coming through clear. We can talk in whispers when it's time for the real deal."

"OK, Fox," Stan said in a sandpapery whisper. "I'm gonna look up so's you can see the catwalk."

The image on her screen tilted. "Yeah, I see, open metalwork, pipes and angles, and the lights are fastened to it. Where do I get in?"

Stan panned the image to the right. Aha. The ceiling had a central barrel arch, and at the far side, a small window had pierced the wall maybe five feet above the catwalk.

Wendy studied it. Now she could see a narrow track—probably used by the electricians when changing bulbs or adjusting the lighting angles or whatever. Yeah, she could use that. "Fox to Ocean, I got a good picture of the catwalk. Let me see the inside of the room."

It was longish, not brightly lighted. Three of the walls were lined with glass-topped cases, and more exhibits stood in glass-fronted shelf units.

Stan sauntered over. In one case "NATIVE AMERICAN RELICS" had been placed like jewels on black velvet. She could even read the little labels: "Oldest arrowhead ever found in Roadkill County, Clovis Point, ca 11,000 BC." Shell beads that hinted at Native American commerce between the Eastern Cascade valleys and the seacoast. Pottery shards.

"I've found lots of that kind of stuff in the woods," Wendy said. "Hardly ever bothered to pick 'em up. After this is over, maybe I can collect some and we'll sell 'em to the Museum."

On screen, Stanley gave her a thumbs-up.

"Ocean, let me see the jewel case, OK?"

Ah. In the center of the floor stood the platform that held a glass case, with a cylindrical spindle inside, like a thick candle—and on it rested something that from a distance looked like a frozen blue-white flame.

As Stan approached, Wendy saw that a circle of waist-high pillars supported a chain surrounding the pedestal. Warning signs indicated that alarms would go off if anyone attempted to climb or duck under the chain. Stan leaned over, and she could see the strange pattern of floor tiles in a circle around the pedestal—probably pressure-sensitive, should anybody step on one.

"Ocean, I see the problem there. Show me the diamond."

First, Stan looked at an engraved plaque:

* * *

THE PHARAOH'S DIAMOND

_Also called "Eye of the Pyramid," this unusually carved gem weighs 405.3 carats and is a close second to the "Star of Africa" as one of the largest diamonds in the world. Thought to have originated in South Africa and to have come to the ancient Egyptians by sub-Saharan trade routes, the diamond is believed to have belonged to the Pharaoh Keff-kep'atch (First Dynasty). It was recovered from the Pharaoh's tomb in 1919 by an expedition financed by Horace Northwest and conducted by his son Dewey Northwest. The diamond is on loan to the Museum courtesy of its current owner, Mr. Preston Northwest, and his family. The estimated value of the diamond is between one hundred and two hundred million dollars._

_The diamond is not perfect. Close observers may see within it a flaw that resembles a stylized human eye._

* * *

"Got it, Ocean. Give me a good look at the diamond."

Stan stood absolutely still, as if rapt with he sight of the jewel. Tiny pin spotlights shone on it, making it glisten and gleam. The stone was indeed about the size of a small pear. A four-sided crystal—a pyramid coming to a point—at its base it was square. As Stan moved around it, Wendy stared hard but could not spot the flaw that the plaque mentioned.

"I think a guard's lookin' at me suspicious," Stan whispered.

"Move on. Wander around lookin' at other stuff and ask the guard a question or two, not about the diamond."

"Good idea. You can turn the gizmo off. I'll be out in ten minutes."

It was closer to twenty, but Stan reappeared grinning. "Gimme the clipboard there with the sketch map of the Museum floor."

Wendy handed it over. It had come from an old pamphlet, printed in the 1980s, extolling the wonders of the Museum. At that time, the diamond was not one of them. With a pencil, humming under his breath, Stan put x's around on the walls. "These here are the lasers and the receivers. They're like electric eyes. Turned off in the daytime but turned on when the doors are locked at night. I'm gonna label these in pairs. The ones are linked by one beam. The twos by another, and so on. They make kind of a lattice pattern in the air all around the diamond display—but they're thinkin' that a thief would come in on the floor, not dropping in from above. OK, it's like a spider's web, a dozen strands, see? Now, there's a couple tight places when you're dropping in from above, but you can make it through."

"Stan," Wendy said.

"You'll have to do some contortions. I ever tell you about Snakey Sadie? Dancer in Vegas I dated a couple times when I was a lot younger. She could lay on her back and rest her chin on her butt! Quite a conversation starter. Anyhow, you won't have to do Sadie's act—"

"Stan."

"—just kinda squirm and make sure you go through this part straight up and—"

"Stan!"

"—down. What?"

Gently, Wendy said, "A hundred to two hundred million, man? Seriously? We could never fence that!"

"I got that doped out—wait, how'd you know what the word 'fence' means?"

"Heard it in old movies. Really, even if we snag the diamond and nobody catches us, what good is it? We can't resell it."

"There's a way," Stan said. He looked at his watch. "Runnin' late. Let's swing by the grocery store and pick up a few things. Our excuse will be that we had to do some shopping."

"Suits me, but—hey, if you score millions of bucks, what are you planning on doing? Takin' off for some foreign country with no extradition laws? 'Cause I'm stuck here, you know, at least 'til I'm eighteen."

For a minute Stan didn't answer her. Then he said, "Hand to God, I won't move out of Gravity Falls anytime soon. And I need the dough on account of I got a kind of secret project—don't ask—that I'm workin' on. Conscience bothering you?"

"Not a lot," she admitted. "What right did old Horace Northwest and his son have to grab Pharaoh Khack-ptooey's diamond? It wasn't theirs."

"I heard Horace used the diamond as collateral for loans," Stan said. "Then his son or somebody used the loans to build up the family businesses and buy up half of Gravity Falls. You know Preston still owns huge chunks of real estate. Inherited them from his grandpa or great-uncle or whatever Dewey Northwest was."

"My dad's got no use for Northwests," Wendy said. "He blames them for something that happened like a hundred years ago. Dunno what. He never talks about it. And Preston's father cheated my Dad on a land deal back before I was born. Dad says if it wasn't for Preston's old man, he and my mom wouldn't have started off their marriage dirt poor. Mom's grandpa also had something to do with that. He didn't approve of my dad."

"Dan's told me a little about him," Stan said. "His lumber company started up with Northwest money."

"Huh. Didn't know that." She shrugged. "I never learned much family history. Dad doesn't like to talk about it. And I barely knew my mother. She died when I was real young."

"Yeah," Stan said. "I know about that." He didn't tell her the rest—that on the nights at the lodge when Dan was missing his Mandy, the big man always broke down in inconsolable tears. Love can be deep, and strong. And hurt like hell.

But they had other things to think about, other plans to make.

* * *


	5. Showtime

**Ocean's Two**

_(June-July 2012)_

* * *

**5-Showtime**

That evening at home, Wendy was extra-nice to Manly Dan and even to her brothers. She prepared venison steaks for the guys—she didn't have much of a taste for it—and creamed potatoes, with buttered peas and carrots on the side. For herself, she threw together a salad and made herself a tuna-melt sandwich. As soon as she had washed the dishes, she faked an enormous yawn. "Dad, I'm going on to bed. Can't keep my eyes open, Stan works me so hard."

"Yeah, go on," Dan rumbled with a grin. "Me and the boys are goin' bowlin' down in Roseburg. We'll be late, so we'll try not to wake you up when we come in."

"Thanks, Dad." Wendy kissed him lightly on the cheek above the beard line.

With daylight still lingering outside, she got into bed fully dressed, curled up, and pulled the covers up over her head. A few minutes later, Dan looked in, as she'd expected he would, then quietly—for him—closed her door. Soon afterward she heard his pickup grumble its way up the long drive.

Wendy immediately rolled out of bed, stripped to her underwear, and donned the greenish-black catsuit. Then she threw her extra pillow and some blankets under the covers, pulled them up, and adjusted things until it looked like a lanky girl was curled up under there. She slipped a CD into her bedside player, set it to loop, and started it.

It was the one and only hit she had ever recorded: "Wendy Corduroy Sound Asleep." It consisted of her regular, long, deep breathing, twenty minutes of it, and then it looped and started again. She turned the volume low and before she left, put a strip of black tape across the player's LED display. As an afterthought, she scattered her shirt, jeans, and boot socks across the foot of the bed.

In the doorway Wendy paused. The light from the open door showed a tall, thin form nestled under the covers. And she heard the breathing and occasional sighs of a sleeping girl. That ought to do it. Dan never came into her room when he checked on her—just cracked the door and listened. And from her past experience, she didn't expect him and the boys to get back before two A.M.

Outside the living-room windows, deep twilight had come on. Crickets and an owl kept up a background concert. Standing on the porch, Wendy used her cell phone. When Stan answered with his usual irritable-sounding "Yah?" she said, "Fox is ready."

"Ocean's on his way. Meet me at the road in five minutes."

Five minutes. Stan must have pulled off on the side somewhere and parked. And probably, knowing Stan, he had gone off at one of the spots where he could conceal the car behind a stand of trees. Dan would drive right past without noticing, probably singing his horrible off-key version of a driving song, "99 Bottles of Beer" or "The Ants Go Marching" or "The Bear Went Over the Mountain." He'd done that when she was small, and he never broke the habit, or seemed to realize that she and her brothers now had different tastes in music.

Ah, what the heck. The boys would join in, bawling the lyrics along with Dan.

Wendy strapped on her harness, made sure that the necessities—the radio receiver and a penlight—were tucked in the Velcro-secured pockets, and double-checked that she had the thin silk gloves she'd wear under the fingerless ones.

All set.

To her surprise, Stan arrived at the head of the driveway as soon as she did, and he was heading not up but down the hill. She climbed in and buckled up. "Expected you'd come from the other direction."

"Nah, always a chance that Dan woulda noticed the car. I drove past earlier and parked in that sort of clearing where the old logging trail cuts off to the right."

"Good thinking, man. The kids OK?"

"Yeah, I worked 'em hard today, so they both conked out. I had to carry Mabel up and tuck her in. Dipper was snoring when I tip-toed out, and Mabel was huggin' her dumb pig."

After a couple of minutes, Wendy asked, "We're really going through with this, Stan?"

"'Course we are! You wanna be rich, don't you?"

After a long thoughtful pause, Wendy replied, "Not really. I don't think so."

"What! Bite your Corduroy tongue! You could buy yourself a car or go to that fancy-schmancy prep school over outside of Hirschville!"

That sparked a quick chuckle from her. "As if."

"OK, suit yourself. But assuming we get away with this, I'll put your cut in, I dunno, like a trust account or something."

"Whatever, man."

As they rolled into town beneath a partly cloudy sky in which a moon waxing toward full now sailed, Stan asked, "Why do you even do this, if you don't want the money?"

"For the lulz," she said.

"The which with the what now?"

Wendy couldn't help smiling. "I think you and Dad might say 'for the kicks.' It's something to do that adults disapprove of. That's the fun part."

"Rebellious, huh?"

"I guess. I dunno. But we're doing it, so it doesn't matter, does it?"

They parked on a back street a block away from the Museum. Stan switched off the engine. "Wendy, to tell the truth I'm having second thoughts, too. I feel like I'm leading you astray. Is that the way to say it?"

"Don't worry about me, man. I wouldn't be here if I didn't mean to go through with it."

"You got moxie, girl. Here we go."

They got out, Wendy put on the oversized trench coat that Stan handed her—"No use in takin' a chance being spotted"—and they went over to Edge Street, one of the darkest streets in town because it was short and the power company had skipped it in distributing streetlamps. Stan stopped beside a parallel-parked car. "This one," he said.

In the moonlight and the faint light from the far end of the street, Wendy said, "A Prius, man? You gotta be kidding me."

"Naw, it's perfect. I recognize this one—It's Tad Strange's car. He's got an apartment on the top floor of one of these houses, but it's in the back with no view of the street. And Strange always goes to bed at eight P.M. We won't be spotted, and add to that, when his car is missing, he won't call the cops, 'cause he don't ever want to be a bother. When they find it, he'll be satisfied to get it back and won't press charges."

"It has electronic entry," Wendy said.

"Yeah, so let's see if we can do this." Stan took out the gizmo that Old Man McGucket had made for him—it looked like a very compact TV remote. "Be ready to run if an alarm goes off."

He pressed a button, and green numerals glowed in the dark. "OK, we have a code: 95105. Here we go."

Wendy bit her lower lip as Stan pressed ENTER.

The locks on the Prius doors clicked and an interior light came on.

"Gloves on?" Stan asked.

"Yeah."

"Open the door." Wendy did.

"Get in. I'm gonna ride shotgun."

Stan went around and climbed in. "Know how to start a Prius?"

"Uhh . . . never been in one."

Stan flashed a small penlight on the dash. "There, round button. Foot on the brake, and then you gotta press the start button twice, I think. Try it."

Wendy did, and the dash lights all came on. "No engine sound."

"It starts out on the electric motor. Hybrid, remember. Don't turn on the headlights yet, but put it in drive."

The car pulled silently away from the curb and after a few yards, the gasoline engine cut in.

"Go slow. Turn right on River Street there and then switch on the headlights. How much gas?"

"Three-quarters of a tank, about," Wendy said. She braked at the stop sign, turned on the headlights, and hung around a block.

"Right again, past the Museum, and then park next to my car."

Wendy followed his directions. "Watch this," Stan said. He held up the remote-entry device and entered 0000. The car switched off. "Got it? What starts it?"

"Uh, 95105. Then four zeroes to stop it."

"Don't forget. Here you go—don't lose this."

She slipped it into one of the Velcro-sealed pockets of her harness. Then at Stan's request, she got out of the car and stood beside Stan's as he stripped off his jacket and pulled on a black turtleneck. He added a black domino mask—think Lone Ranger, think Nightwing—and said, "Disguise ready!"

He led the way—not out to the street, but through a strip of pine woods. "Know where we are, Wendy?"

"Yeah, behind the History Museum."'

"Right. This was s'posed to be a park, but the town never developed it, so it's just trash pine. Up the hill now, and before we step out into the open, wait a minute to make sure the coast is clear."

They emerged about thirty feet from the rear wall of the museum. They had to cross a narrow asphalt parking lot. Then over to the left the wing that housed the Rarities collection jutted out. They circled that way, carefully—by now the night was dark, and the low-level lights inside the Museum offered little illumination when filtered through the high windows.

It was good that Wendy's point of entrance—the little window above the big, arched, and predominately purple stained-glass window—had regular clear glass in it. "Think you can climb this?" Stan asked.

Well—the wall was sheer, made of granite blocks, but—and this was important—there were spaces between he blocks, and the big arched window did have a heavy wooden frame. "Yeah, I think so. Finger and toe holds. And there's a narrow ledge all the way across above the stained-glass window. If I can get to that and the little window's not paint-sealed or some junk, I should be able to get it open and get through. Little tricky, but I'm pretty good at climbing."

"OK, before you start, come with me." He led her around to a small side door. "Gotta shut off the security system first," Stan said. "Also, this is my way in. I can't take the climb."

"Security system?" Wendy asked. Nobody had mentioned that before.

"Yeah, his name's Ripper. Hold the penlight."

She took it and, at Stan's direction, centered the beam on the doorknob and lock—a big, old-fashioned keyhole that looked like a stylized picture of a woman on a ladies' room door, a circle atop a truncated triangle.

"This won't take but a few seconds," Stan said. He pulled out a ring of things that looked somewhat like Allen wrenches, plus about six keys. He selected one of the latter. "Skeleton key," he explained. "If this works, I won't have to pick the lock. Here goes."

He wiggled the key around a little, and then the key turned, and the lock clicked. "Ha!" Stan said. "Got it in one. Here you go—hold this." He handed her something soft in a plastic bag.

"Dude," she began.

"Sh-sh-sh. Let me go first." Stan slowly turned the knob and the door opened. "Behind me, and stay close."

They slipped inside. Stan felt around and threw a light switch clicked, flooding the room with a fluorescent glare. "No windows in here, except one blocked by that big file cabinet. Storeroom," Stan whispered. Then, louder, he called, "Here, boy!"

Wendy heard the clicking of claws on the marble floor, and a dark form loomed in the open door ahead. It was a dog. A big dog.

"Ha!' Stan said. "There he is. Good dog, Ripper! Who wants a snack? Want some steak? Here you go!"

The dog, an exceptionally large Doberman, came in, wriggling his butt in lieu of wagging his stumpy tail. Stan knelt, held out his open palm with a little chunk of raw meat on it. The dog snuffled it up, then tried to lick Stan's face. "Good dog, good dog," Stan said, half-laughing. "Hey, Ripper, this here's Wendy. Wendy, give our buddy a treat."

The dog looked keenly at Wendy. She opened the baggie and took out a piece of steak. "Here you go," she said.

"Hold it flat on your palm. Don't move your hand," Stan said. "Let him get a good sniff of your scent."

The dog did, nostrils twitching. And then he took the steak and wolfed it down. "Now pet him. His neck, not his head," Stan said.

Wendy did, and the dog leaned into her.

"Good job, he likes you. OK, you go out. Me and Ripper will go ahead and wait for you. I'll get some smoke in the air, so the lasers will show up. Put your ears on."

Wendy put the earbud in and went outside and around the building. Halfway there she heard, "Fox, you there?"

"Here, Ocean," she said.

"Great, we got communication. All right, don't take chances. You run into any problem, abort. We pull it off, get Strange's car and meet me at the spot. You know it?"

They had discussed that, and Wendy knew it was outside the Valley and to the north, a tiny park, the Little Wamic picnic area off the highway and concealed by pines from direct view. "Sure."

"Don't keep up a constant chat but call if anything comes up."

She arrived on the side with the windows. She ran her hands over the wall, took a deep breath, flattened against the cool granite, and—began to climb.


	6. The Heist

**Ocean's Two**

_(June-July 2012)_

* * *

**6-The Heist**

It was not like climbing a tree. Not at all.

No safety belt for one thing. For another, no helpful branches to grasp or stand on.

And Wendy quickly realized that gravity was not her friend.

She flattened against the wall, feeling the cold hard granite against her cheek. The crevices between blocks had been mortared, but thankfully the weathers of baking sun and bristling frosts had over the years gouged out some of the mortar, so she had nearly inch-deep finger and toeholds. If she'd had pitons to wedge in here and there, they would have been a great comfort, but neither Stan nor she had thought of them.

No use crying over spilt milk. She had to avoid crying over a splatted girl.

Wendy discovered one bit of good luck: the wooden frame around the big arched stained-glass window stuck out from the granite about four inches all around. And she was right next to its left-hand side. When she was high enough, she inched sideways until she could rest her splayed feet atop the arch, heel to heel, like a ballerina in first position. And she could just stretch up enough to get a precarious hold on the ledge below the small square window through which she hoped to enter.

That was the most ticklish bit—flattening her hands on the ledge, using biceps and shoulders to steady herself while she toed up the wall. It made her breath come sharp and fast. The ledge, fortunately, was somewhat wider than she'd supposed, maybe eighteen inches, deeper than it looked from the ground.

Ah. The wall above the ledge was not as thick as the granite wall below—and it was stucco, not stone. Best of all, there was a small overhang of the ledge against the inset well of the window—two inches, but enough for her to get a finger-grip.

She made the last scramble and rested, lying face-down on the ledge, smelling pine needles. They had collected in the window inset.

When she had her breath back, Wendy raked out the pine straw, brittle and dry, and in the dim glow spilling from the window she saw they had covered twin drains, each about two inches in diameter—they probably led to the downspouts. However, the roof overhung the ledge, so flooding probably wasn't a problem. Making sure to distribute her weight as she lay there, Wendy tried the window—a simple two-paned drop-sash design. She saw no lock.

However, as she had feared but expected, it stuck.

Stan's voice buzzed in her earpiece: "Ocean here. Fox, can you give me a status report?"

"Fox here. Yeah, I've reached the entrance. Little sticky up here. Hang on."

Damn, she was lying with the tool pocket underneath her chest. Hanging on with her left hand—a fall from forty feet might not kill her, but the asphalt underneath would not be soft—she reached her right hand across until she could lift the Velcro flap sealing that pocket. She felt the round handle of the tool she needed and pulled it out, reclosing the flap. Wouldn't do to lose something she might need inside.

The tool was a flat prybar, only five inches long. Grunting, Wendy worked the beveled edge into the crack beneath the bottom window frame and levered. Moved it an inch along and tried again. Then again.

On that attempt, the wood squeaked and she felt it give a little.

Wendy moved the prybar back and managed to open a half-inch crack. Then to the other side, and the sash grated until the opening was an inch and a half. Laying the prybar down in the window inset, she got her fingers under the sash and heaved. The window opened reluctantly, creaking. She opened it as wide as it would go—not quite two feet. "Got it, Ocean," she said.

"Yeah, I see you. I'm smokin'. Come in careful. Don't trip or nothin'."

From her position, Wendy had to go in head-first. She looked down—heights didn't bother her—and saw the catwalk four or five feet below her. How the heck did the Museum people reach it?

A double row of steel supports secured the catwalk to the ceiling, and she could reach the nearest one. Grasping it, she dragged herself in, then slid down the steel rod until she got her feet on the open grating of the catwalk. Narrow, foot and a half. And standing, she had to stoop forward—not much headroom up here.

She tested it, and it easily held her weight. Now that she was in, she realized there was a gate at her end of the catwalk, where, she guessed, a ladder might be rested. In the hazy air, though, she saw the crisscrossing red beams of the laser system and realized that, while a reasonably agile man might edge around the walls and duck under or step over most of them, there was no way that a rolling ladder could be maneuvered without setting them off.

At ten-foot intervals, hanging light fixtures had been bolted to the underside of the catwalk—none of them lit, because the security lighting was low and came from beneath, from fixtures on the walls.

Stan's voice in her ear again: "Fox, can you see me? Here by the front door."

Wendy craned around. "Yeah, I got you."

"Walk straight ahead until I tell you to stop."

The metal catwalk pinged and grated as she went forward, gripping one rail with her gloved left hand. "Fox, you're nearly there. Like two more steps."

After two steps Wendy stopped. "Ocean, I'm here."

"Drop me a line."

This was the part they had not rehearsed, but it was a necessary step. From beneath her harness Wendy took a coil of thin, very flexible cord, ten yards long. She tied one end to the rail, then let down the free end. "Ocean, there you go."

"Just a second. I'm making sure it's secure. OK, haul it in."

The first load didn't weigh all that much—twenty-two yards of rope, tested to hold three hundred pounds. She hauled it in and coiled it. The last few yards became heavy. That was the electric winch, its sturdy battery adding to the weight. She got it onto the catwalk and untied the heavier rope from its frame. "Can you put me where you want me?" she asked Stan.

"Yeah, it's midways, so slow down when you get close. I got my eyes on you."

She stopped when he told her to. "Hang on half a minute. I'm addin' some smoke. While I do this, you secure the winch to the main brace of the catwalk."

It fastened with four clamps, sturdy but designed for quick release. Once it was in place, she took off her harness, pulled out the suspension wires one after the other, and clipped them to the harness. Then she tucked her hair in and donned the harness over it. That would keep it from swaying loose and maybe breaking a laser beam. "Ocean, I'm ready."

"OK, I got the remote. I'm gonna let you have about five feet slack to begin with."

The winch whined and the suspension wires paid out smoothly. Wendy ducked under the safety rail and, clinging there with her knees bent, she said, "Take it in and tell me when to let go."

"Wish us luck."

The winch reversed, and she felt the wires grow taut. "Stop, that feels right. I'm ready."

"Go when you want."

Wendy took a deep breath and swung out. The winch held her weight, and she hung suspended, like a high-board diver caught in a photo. She steadied and oriented herself by reaching up to grasp the catwalk brace. "Ocean, let me down."

"Keep an eye on the red streaks. Let me know if you need more smoke. Here you go."

Stan manipulated the controls. Sinking head-down and feeling the wires adjust until she was nearly vertical—if she were a diver, she'd plunge straight in, no huge splash. Twice she warned Stan to stop the motor as she passed a slanting laser beam that was a little too close for her comfort. Once past them, she slowed as Stan backed off the motor. Now she dangled inches above the cubical glass case.

"OK, Ocean, I'm undoing the bolts."

Now that they were really doing this, she'd begun to sweat. She drew in a deep breath and held it, carefully removing all twelve bolts and dropping them into a cotton bag that swung from the harness. Then she lifted the glass case—it was heavier than she expected—and, resting one of its edges against the column and holding it in place with her left hand, she lifted the diamond off its support with her right.

"Whoa!" she said, blinking.

"What's wrong?"

Squinting, Wendy said, "The rod holding the stone's hollow or some deal, and there's like a thousand-watt bulb shining up through it. Just a sec." She tucked the diamond into the cotton bag and said, "Let me get the glass back in place, and then I'm out of here."

"Don't refasten it, just—"

"Yeah, I know." She grunted. It didn't go on exactly straight, but it didn't feel as if it would topple off onto the weight-sensitive tiles below. "There. Got it. Haul away, Ocean."

"Up you go."

As the winch pulled her back up, Wendy shielded her eyes. The haze that had allowed her to avoid the red lasers made the beam from the column like a cone of intense light. She was rising head-first, and again she had Stan slow down twice while she sucked in everything to make sure she wouldn't touch a laser beam. And then he sped her up again.

Up to the catwalk, and she swung onto it, Stan loosened the support wires, she released herself from them and then reeled them in. With four clicks she took the winch off the catwalk brace, then she carried it up to the front. There she tied it to one end of the heavier rope and lowered it to Stan.

"OK, come on down," he said, not bothering with the walkie-talkie. "Be real careful now."

Wendy looped the rope around the catwalk rail and then climbed down the doubled strand. At the bottom she pulled it loose, and Stan coiled the rope and the cord, draping it over his shoulder. "Let's go," he said. "I gotta admit, I was nervous, but you did it. Good job, kid."

"Piece of cake," she said.

Grinning, Stan reached for the doorknob. They'd planned to exit the Rarities room, hustle through the lobby, around the corner, and downstairs to the storeroom, leaving by the door that Stan had unlocked. He'd lock it behind them—let the cops try to figure out how they'd done it, that would keep Durland busy for maybe the rest of his life.

Then they'd split up, drive off in separate cars, rendezvous at the picnic area when they were both sure no one was following them, and after that—

Well, Wendy didn't know what. Something. Something more exciting than logging or holding down a counter with her heels.

And who knows? They might have gotten away with it.

But Stan opened that door, said, "Oh, no!"

And as perhaps they should have expected—

The unexpected happened.

* * *


	7. The Getaway

**Ocean's Two**

_(June-July 2012)_

* * *

**7-The Getaway**

Ripper was a Doberman, a breed of dog noted for intelligence, strength, and loyalty. Dobermans have a distinctive stance, standing on the pads of their paws, rather like a kid on tiptoe. Most purebred Dobermans born in the USA have their tails cropped and their ears snipped so they stood up straight and triangular. If these operations are not performed, the adult dog's tail curls in a graceful fish-hook curve, while the ears either hang straight and loose or stand up, but with the top half flopped over.

Ripper's tail had been, well, curtailed, but his ears had not been touched, and when he was in a good mood, they perked mostly up, with just the tips folded.

Normally a Doberman is mostly active in the daytime. Ripper had become essentially a nocturnal animal—though it is true that even a sleeping Doberman is a great watchdog, because even a nearly silent, unexpected sound will rouse the snoozing dog, which accelerates from REM sleep to tense, assertive wakefulness in roughly half a second.

Ripper, though, either because he was conscientious about his duties or because he had serious insomnia, remained awake all night and during the day slept contentedly in the museum office—which is where he also received his meals. Stan had learned about this while visiting the museum before, and he even had met Ripper and had good-naturedly offered him treats on those visits, even before he began to think about the possibilities of acquiring the Pharaoh's Eye Diamond.

As for Ripper, his thought processes might have gone something like this:

_Good human. Good human. Gives me meat. Good man. Good man. I like this man._

OK, so he wasn't a deep thinker. Few dogs are. Still, because he knew Stan from before, on the night of the heist, Ripper welcomed him with open paws instead of open jaws.

On a normal night Ripper had the run of the museum except for one room. Guess which.

See, the Rarities Room, alone of all the sections of the building, had been armed with the network of laser detectors. I mean, those things are expensive, you know? And even a good-natured dog making his rounds as a guard could cut through a laser beam—when there's not a haze of smoke to make them show up, they're invisible, even to a dog, and they have no scent.

Because Ripper slept most of the day, he had not visited the Rarities Room ever. He had a healthy curiosity about it—not enough to visit it during the day, but at night, with the door closed and locked, he had often wondered, in his canine way, _What in there? Could I eat it? Could I play with it? Could I hump it?_

Oh, in addition to having unlopped ears, Ripper had not been neutered. About twice a year he had carefully arranged dates with lady Dobermans—he was a purebred—but twice a year isn't all that much for an, um, enthusiastic doggy.

OK, OK, I know, too much backstory.

After watching Stan open the door—the difference between a real key and a lockpick eluded him—Ripper had settled down on the floor outside the mysterious room, the stone floor cool against his tummy, his chin resting on paws, nose twitching, ears listening to every small sound, eyes locked on the doorknob.

And when the door opened again just a teeny-tiny crack, Ripper hustled.

* * *

"Oh fudge!" Stan considerately yelled, even though he felt fairly confident that Wendy knew the real word he meant.

He tried, too late, to shove the door closed, but Ripper thought he was playing a game and squeezed through with barely an effort. Then he stuck his rear end in the air, dropped his chest to the floor, and wagged his butt.

This is dog-talk for _Let's play!_

"Shoot!" Stan said, still sticking to expletives on the safe side of vulgarity. He frantically rummaged in his side pocket. "Maybe I still got a treat left—"

The T word. Ripper knew the T word. Ripper _loved_ the treat word!

Ripper, who also loved surprise snacks, cavorted.

He jumped. He raced in crazy circles. He leaped. He freaking rose on his hind legs and _danced_.

"Run for it!" Stan yelled, jerking the door open as Ripper broke the continuity of a laser beam.

You've probably seen submarine movies in which the boat's Klaxons roared and snarled— _Crash dive! Crash dive! Crash dive!_

Well. Instantaneously the entire Rarities Room vibrated to deafening "OOGAH! OOGAH!" noises.

Stan barely managed to hold the door open as it automatically began to close. Desperately, he jammed his back against it and braced himself. "Go!"

Wendy squeezed past him, Ripper scrammed past Stan's legs, and then, groaning, Stan pirouetted and barely managed to get clear as the door slammed and a heavy lock clicked.

"Beaver dam! Boulder Dam!" Stan exclaimed. "The alarm's goin' off in the police station right now! We got three minutes!"

They reached the stair down to the storage rooms, and Stan finally found a leftover snack and turned and tossed it. Ripper scrambled up the stair, in pursuit of the delicious morsel.

Stan slammed the door behind him. "Back door locked?" Stan asked.

Wendy rattled the knob. "Yeah!"

"Ship! Ship! Ship! It would be! The emergency locks are all deadbolts, they'd take too long to pick. Let me think, let me think."

Wendy grunted as she pulled a tall file cabinet away from the wall. "How 'bout this?" She had revealed a possible way out, one the cabinet had half-hidden.

Stan glared at the high window. He and Wendy stood, essentially, in the museum basement. The horizontal window was tiny. He clenched his teeth.

"I can't fit. You go. Wait, gimme the diamond first."

Wendy handed it to him without question. Stan looked at the stone sorrowfully. "Aw, we came so close. We came so—"

He twitched as if he had touched a hot electric wire. For three or four seconds, he just gazed at the diamond. He drew a long unsteady breath. "Wendy. See if you can get out. Duck through the woods and take off in the Prius. Ditch it somewhere and get home."

"Dude, I hear a siren!"

"Go!"

"Stan, not without you! They'll throw you in—"

He growled deep in his throat. "I'm an old man, it don't matter. You got your whole life—ah, screw it, go now, and that's an order!"

He even boosted her, making a stirrup of his hands. The window was a tight squeeze even for her, and Stan was right. He would never have fit.

Wendy dragged herself out. The window opened onto a narrow strip of grass. To her left were the steps down to the door that Stan had opened with a skeleton key. Ahead of her was the narrow asphalt parking lot, and beyond that the dark pines.

Wendy ran for it.

She dropped to a crouch and froze. Behind her a police car squealed into the lot, lights flashing, siren shrieking. Wendy pulled the ski mask down and risked a glance back. Blubs spilled out from the passenger side of the cruiser, Durland emerged from the driver's door and immediately fell flat on his face.

"You all right, Deputy?" Blubs yelled, rushing around the car and bending over the fallen man.

"Yeah, I think so. I tripped on my seat belt, but I landed on my head."

"Lucky! You got your bullet?"

"Oh, dang it! I knew I forgot something!"

"That's OK, just don't tell the perp your sidearm's not loaded. Ready to go in?"

"Ready!"

They collided at the head of the short set of concrete steps and tumbled down against the closed door. But they'd sort themselves out in seconds.

Taking her chance, Wendy ducked through the trees, and the branches, with many dry needles, rustled.

Behind her, she heard Blubs yell, "What was that? Somebody in the trees, Deputy! Hey, you! Stop or we'll shoot!"

_Damn, damn, damn!_

Wendy didn't say it, but she thought it. She ripped the ski mask off and hurried to the larger parking area where Stan's car stood near the Prius. She took out the remote and keyed in the code. The Prius door unlocked, and she slid behind the wheel and punched the start button twice, then shifted to _Drive._

As she pulled out of one side of the lot, she saw blue lights in the rear-view. Blubs or Durland was chasing her.

She made a hard right onto a street lacking streetlamps. The cop car was twenty seconds behind her. She wrenched the Prius out onto River Street, and with a sudden inspiration, she tried something she'd seen in the movies and had once seen Lee do—she wrenched the wheel while stamping on the emergency brake.

The world spun, the car pulled a 180 in the empty street, and Wendy stepped on the emergency brake pedal again. She headed toward the side street at a respectable 36 miles per hour. When the cop car turned out a moment later, she stamped the brake and flashed the headlights, and Durland—alone in the cruiser and at the wheel—braked and rolled down his window. "What? What?"

"Officer!" Wendy yelled, trying to sound panicked (and that wasn't hard). "A guy driving like a maniac nearly crashed into me!"

"What kind of car?" Durland asked.

"Like this one a Prius, only this one's blue and that one's black! The guy driving it was real burly and had a black beard, and he was wearing like a mask and a black-and-white striped shirt! And his plates were Canadian! And he turned on River Street like he was leaving the Valley!"

"Thank you, Ma'am!" Durland yelled, even putting in the apostrophe. "I'll put out an ABC—uh, no, a 211, no, that's not right either—"

"An APB!" Wendy yelled. "If you hurry, you can catch him!"

Durland sped off, simultaneously screaming into his radio.

With her heart pounding, Wendy took the Prius back to the spot where she and Stan had boosted it, parked it, and got out and locked it.

She took a few deep breaths. She faced a long walk home. Three hours even if she hurried.

She still wore the catsuit, and she kept to the shadows, freezing every time a car cruised by. There weren't many. Most people in Gravity Falls were off the streets by ten at night. Once past the town limits, Wendy picked up her pace—along the highway she could just drop into the grass at the side of the road and be almost invisible.

The whole way back she kept wondering what was going on with Stan—did he need a lawyer? Was he in jail? Oh, God, what was she going to tell Mabel and Dipper?

Not far from her driveway a truck rumbled up from behind, and Wendy dropped into the grass and flattened. Unless she was mistaken—

No, she wasn't. Her dad's pickup truck was parked in the driveway, its cooling engine ticking metallically. A lamp was on in the living room.

Wendy slipped around to the side of the house, went around to her bedroom window—standing open on this summer night—and slipped inside. She could hear her dad's voice rumbling as he talked to her brothers, and quickly she jerked the rolled blanket and pillow from under the covers and jumped in herself. Then she heard the CD with its breathing disk.

She hastily shut it off just as the door opened.

A moment of silence. Then, in a sleepy voice, she murmured, "Um, who's that? Dad?"

"Yeah," Manly Dan said in his version of a whisper. "Just checkin' on you."

"Um. What time is it?"

"One-thirty, about. Good night, baby girl."

"Night, Dad."

The door closed.

And Wendy lay there for hours wondering, _What do I do? What should I do? What can I do?"_

It wasn't fair that she got away and Stan was there trapped in the Museum—and with the loot on him!—and—and—

Wendy didn't often weep.

But that night she cried herself to sleep.

* * *


	8. The Fallout

**Ocean's Two**

_(June-July 2012)_

* * *

**8-The Fallout**

Wendy jerked awake from an uneasy dream of dangling upside-down thirty feet above the floor and feeling the support wires snap and seeing the tiles rushing right at her head—

"Whoa!" She lay for a moment feeling her heart thumping as if it were trying to batter its way out of the cage of her ribs. "It's OK, it's OK," she told herself, though she also mentally accused herself of lying.

She got out of bed, stripped off her catsuit, put on her robe, and went to the bathroom—it was only five-fifty A.M., and her dad and brothers would sleep for at least another hour if she didn't knock on their doors, so she had it all to herself—and took a long, hot shower. Back in her room, she changed to her work clothes (that morning a red-plaid flannel shirt instead of a green one) and then packed up the catsuit and harness in a big opaque plastic bag.

In the kitchen, fighting back yawns, she put on the coffee, scrambled a dozen eggs and fried a pound of bacon, popped a dozen slices of bread in the huge toaster, and woke her dad. "Breakfast is ready," she said. "You get the boys up. I gotta go in to work this morning."

"On Sunday?" Dan grumbled. "The Shack don't open until one—"

"Stan's leaning on me," Wendy reminded him. "Scrape the dishes and leave them in the sink, and I'll wash them this afternoon when I get back."

"Today after church we're gonna drive up and visit your aunt," Dan said. "Don't worry yourself about fixin' dinner. We'll pick up something on our way back."

"Thanks. I'm gonna ride on over to the Shack."

"Don't you want to have your breakfast first?" Dan asked.

"Already ate," she lied.

As the three boys stampeded to the table, Manly Dan yelling at them, Wendy carried the bag with the harness and the black form-fitting suit out to her bike, climbed on, and pumped her way up the drive and to the road. Her muscles felt tense, so tight they quivered as if an electric current pulsed through her. She concentrated on the highway and the early wildlife, squirrels, a couple of rabbits, plenty of birds, to stop thinking about what she didn't want to think about.

It was a cloudy morning, a little cooler than the days before had been. Even so, with her insides feeling quivery and her outsides feverish, Wendy got to the Shack with sweat running down her neck, and murmured "Be there, Stan. Please be there!"

But the El Diablo did not stand in its slot in the parking lot. Clenching her teeth and hating to face Dipper and Mabel, Wendy stood holding the knob and taking deep breaths, but then she opened the family door—the Pines family didn't normally lock it—and tiptoed through to the gift shop and then into the staff room, where she stashed the bag with the clothes and harness in her locker.

In the dim morning, with no lights on, for the first time the Shack struck her as somehow threatening. "I should go wake the kids up," she told herself.

But for some reason she couldn't bring herself to walk up those stairs.

Instead, she brewed a quarter-pot of coffee and toasted a piece of bread, though her stomach fluttered with a touch of nausea. The kids, the kids, what could she say to them? They'd have to go back to Piedmont, and their folks might be furious with them and Stan. And then even if Stan covered for her with the cops, Wendy knew her dad was bound to send her to that damn logging camp—

"Hi, Wendy!" Dipper's voice made her jump so abruptly that her toast flew off the plate and fell to the floor. "Sorry!" he said. "I'll toast another slice."

"No, don't worry. It—it was—I ate before," she said. She sat at the table and put both hands round her coffee cup to stop them from visibly trembling. "Uh, Dipper—"

"Don't cook anything for me. I'm going to have cereal," he said. "Mabel's still asleep."

However, Waddles, evidently attracted by hearing their voices, came downstairs in a series of bumps and pauses, like a pink Slinky descending, and promptly ate the slice of fallen toast. Dipper let him outside before bringing his bowl, a box of cornflakes, and the milk to the table. "We're out of juice," he said, making a note on the grocery list held by a magnet on the side of the fridge.

"Um," she said.

"You came in really early. What's Grunkle Stan doing?" Dipper asked, sitting beside her.

"Haven't, uh—" Wendy took a sip of coffee and then cleared her throat. "Haven't seen Stan since yesterday."

"Funny, he's usually up early," Dipper said.

Mabel came yawning and scratching down the stairs, paused to let Waddles back in, and then poured and set down a bowl of Piggy Chow—no slop for her prized mini-porker—for him. She refilled his water bowl and said, "Dipper, we need more pig food."

"Write it on the list," Dipper said.

"Aw, I gotta do everything," she grumbled, but she scribbled the note on the shopping list. Then with an evil chuckle, she stood on a chair and took from a cabinet shelf the dusty round box of Oat-Like Meal ("Now with more sawdust!") that looked so disgusting in the picture that no one had ever prepared a bowl of it. In fact, just below the lid the faded warning "Best if used by 10-01-82" still could be read.

"You're not going to eat that!" Dipper exclaimed.

"Behold, Broseph!" With a flourish, Mabel set the box on the counter, opened it, and took out two chocolate-frosted donuts. "Ha-hah! Safe where I stashed them!"

"We had those last week!" Dipper said.

"They improve with age, like a fine chocolate-frosted wine!" Mabel said. She stood on the chair again to replace the fauxmeal on the high shelf. "Now I gotta find another place to stash my secret emergency provisions."

She got a glass, poured some milk, sat down, and took a big bite out of one donut. It crunched, crackling as if she were chewing eggshells. "Still good," she said, spraying dry crumbs.

"Dude, you'll get sick," Wendy warned,

"Don't worry about that. She's built up a tolerance," Dipper said. "One morning, Mom put a fresh vase of jonquils on the table, and—"

"They were packed with flowery goodness!" Mabel said. "Mmmm! They tasted so yellow!"

"She ate the whole bunch," Dipper finished. "Except for the stems."

"Yeah, the stems were tough and stringy."

As Dipper finished his cereal and Mabel choked down the last of the second donut, Wendy sighed. "Guys," she said, "I, uh, I have to tell you something." She bit her lip and took a deep breath. "I got some bad news."

They froze, eyes wide and apprehensive.

"You're not sick?" Mabel asked.

"Your dad's not sending you away?" asked Dipper.

For the moment Wendy fought back tears and didn't trust her voice. She knew her face must hold an expression like the mask of tragedy, but she couldn't help it. "Look, guys, I'm not gonna be here for long today. I—I gotta go do something. I gotta go into town, to the police station and—"

The door opened, and Stan stepped in. "Morning, goofballs," he rumbled.

Wendy jumped up, knocking her chair back so hard it tipped and crashed to the floor, and to both Dipper's and Mabel's astonishment, she ran and hugged Stan.

"Hey, hey, hey," Stan said in a grumbly voice. "Good morning to you, too! Go pick up that chair and let a guy get somethin' to eat. Hey, Mabel, there's a jar of decaf instant coffee in the cabinet beside the fridge. Dig it out for me, OK?"

"Uh, sure," Mabel said. She rummaged and brought out a six-ounce jar of Fraudger's ("Nothing in your cup is better than Fraudger's").

Stan ran some water into a saucepan, put it on the stove, and turned the flame on high. He grabbed two slices of bread and popped a slab of Cheddar between them. When the water boiled, he poured a cup of it and after forcibly wrenching open the rusted lid of the jar, he used a spoon to chisel some petrified decaf coffee crystals ("Use by 9/15/82") into his cup and stirred it in.

He sat down, engulfed about half of the sandwich, swigged the steaming, evil-smelling witch's brew he had created in the cup, and said, "Here's the deal. I'm gonna sack out for two, three hours. You knuckleheads straighten up everything. Soos'll be in about half-past noon, and we open at one, like every Sunday. Today's no different."

"What does that mean?" Dipper asked.

"Your sister will explain it," Stan snapped.

Mabel said, "You see, Dipper, there are seven days in every week— "

"That's not what I meant! Grunkle Stan?"

But Stan seemed in no mood to chat. He finished his sandwich, got up, and poured out about half of his coffee, if the term can be applied to what he'd been drinking. He looked at his watch. "OK, it's, what, just past seven. You guys can goof off until ten, but get busy then, and wake me at eleven. Keep it quiet!"

He started off to bed, but Wendy caught up to him. "What happened?" she demanded in a whisper.

He looked at her with weary, red-rimmed eyes but gave her a tired grin. "You wanna know why I'm not behind bars?"

"Well—yeah, man!"

"The whole story?"

She glanced back—Dipper and Mabel were clearing the table—and then nodded urgently.

Stan's grin widened. "Tell you later. Right now, I'm gonna be like a mean writer and just leave you hangin.'"

And, leaving Wendy teetering between relief and worry, he went to bed.

* * *


	9. Stan's Story

**Ocean's Two**

_(June-July 2012)_

* * *

**9-Stan's Story**

"Ehh," Stan muttered after counting the day's take, "I'm startin' to wonder if opening on Sundays for six hours is even worth it. We broke even and made a profit of—" he grabbed a pencil and scribbled on the back of the long receipt tape he had printed—"um, fifty bucks and fifteen cents."

"On the bright side, Mr. Pines, dude, we're not in the red," Soos said helpfully. "Well, that's it for me. I'm gonna head for home."

"Hey, Soos," Stan said. "Little favor?"

"Yes, sir, sir!" Soos said, all but saluting.

"I'm gonna take Wendy back to her house a little later. How's about tossin' her bike in the back of your pickup and running it back to the Corduroy house for her? It'll be after dark when we get finished here—"

"Say, like, no more!" Soos said happily. "Uh, wait, say some more. Where should I put it?"

"On the front porch is fine," Wendy said. "Left side, under the window, so you don't block the door."

"I'd better, like, write that down," Soos said. He did, and then he hurried to do his errand.

Watching the handyman drive away in his pickup, Stan said, "Ya know, when Soos gets too annoying, you can just make him go to sleep for a little while by dropping a towel over his head. Works for canaries, too."

"I'll remember that," Wendy said. "But how about—"

"Tut-tut-tut-tut," Stan tutted. "Baseball pitchers have big ears. Or something." Then he bawled, "Kids!"

"Here!" Mabel shouted back, bursting out of a big cardboard crate of Cuddly Cthulhu stuffed toys. "I'm playing Exploring R'lyeh!"

"Yeah, good luck with that, where's your brother?"

"I'll go find him," Mabel said, but instead of doing so, she simply screamed "DIPPER!" Waddles popped out of the carton like a porcine Jack in the box and fled squealing upstairs. "Heh! Mabel chuckled. "Sensitive ears!"

Dipper trudged in. "What?" he asked in an aggrieved tone. "I was gonna do some reading—"

"I been thinking," Stan said, cutting him off. "You two have been workin' extra adequately, and you deserve a break. How's about I drop you off at the movies? I'll, and I can't believe I'm actually sayin' this, give you money for dinner and a movie and drop you off at the mall."

"Meat Cute!" Mabel instantly yelled. "I don't know what shawarma is, but if it was good enough for that guy in the post-credits scene, I want me some!"

"As long as it's not Hoo-Ha Owl's," Dipper said with a shrug.

"OK, movie will be twelve bucks for the two of ya, so here's a twenty, blow the rest on your dinner."

Mabel put her hands on her hips. "For shame, Grunkle Stan! That's gonna run at least twelve! And where's sodas, huh? Where's popcorn?"

Grinding his teeth, Stan shucked out another twenty. "You're runnin' me uncomfortably close to bankruptcy, you know that? OK, pile into the car and I'll drive you over."

At the movies, they paused to check the showtimes. "You got forty-five minutes to have your shawarma," Stan told the twins. "Then get to the 7:45 show, and I'll be back to pick you gremlins up at 9:55. Be on time!"

"Hey, isn't Wendy coming with us?" Dipper asked.

"Nah, sorry," Wendy said. "Stan's got a little bit of work for me to finish up."

"Aw," Dipper said.

She gave him a smile. "I'm plannin' to sleep late tomorrow," she said. "But tell you what—I'll come over to the Shack in the afternoon and we'll hang out."

"Great!" Dipper exclaimed. Then he turned pink. "I mean, yeah, you know, whatever. It's all good."

When the kids had gone for their meal, Stan started the car. "You want to know all about it," he said to Wendy.

"Well, yeah! Last I knew, you were getting' ready to take the blame!"

"Take the rap," Stan corrected. "You still need to work on your lingo."

They went back to the Shack and had sandwiches at the table, Waddles hovering—and Hoovering—on the floor under it. "OK," Stan said. "Truth is, the minute that dumb dog set off the alarm, I knew I was sunk—"

* * *

"I'm an old man, it don't matter. You got your whole life—ah, screw it, go now, and that's an order!" Stan made a stirrup of his hands, Wendy squirmed out through the narrow window, he watched her go, and then he sighed and said, "Well—dammit!"

A couple of minutes later, Sheriff Blubs, sidearm drawn, unlocked the front door of the Museum, pivoted inside, hit the lights, and said, "Don't make a move!"

Stan, sitting behind the Information desk, leaned back with his feet up, like Wendy, jauntily said, "Hiya, Sheriff."

The Rarities Room alarm still hooted and bawled. Blubs yelled, "What?"

"I can't hear you for all the noise!" Stan shouted back.

"I can't hear you! Hands in the air!"

"What?"

"What?"

With a sigh, Stan got up and walked to a locked electronics cabinet. He pointed at the lock and mimed unlocking it. Blubs said. "Oh. Oh!" He found the key, opened the door, and they stared at what looked like a bank of circuit breakers.

"That one, I think," Stan said, pointing.

"What?"

Rolling his eyes, Stan punched the button. Nothing happened. He threw a couple of switches, hit another button, and the alarm stopped, the echoes quivering for a few seconds. "There. That's better. You were saying?"

"Thanks!" Blubs said. "What was I saying?"

"I think it was 'Stick 'em up,' or words to that effect," Stan said.

"Oh, right, thanks. Hands in the air!"

Shaking his head, Stan put his hands up. "I just don't care," he said. "But before you go any further, take a look in the Rarities Room. You'll find this is missing." He flicked his right hand and like a magic trick, suddenly he held up the diamond, no longer as brilliant as it had been under the lights.

Blubs puzzled out how to unlock the automatic door locks (another switch in the electronics cabinet) and then made a careful, slow survey of the room before spotting the problem. "Say—the Pharaoh's Eye Diamond is missing!"

"Yeah," Stan said, tossing the gem up and catching it.

The sheriff pushed his Mountie-style hat up with the barrel of his gun. "This is a mystery! Where could it be?"

"You can solve that, but first I'd suggest you call two people," Stan said. "Get them down here right now. First, Mr. Northwest. Second, a jeweler."

Blubs used the Information desk phone to do that. As he hung up, his radio crackled. An urgent tenor voice urgently said, "Sheriff Blubs, this here's Deputy Durland! Come in!"

"Blubs here. Where are you, Deputy?"

"Um, I think I'm about halfway to the Washington State border. Sheriff, I'm in red-hot pursuit of the purple traitor! He's driving a late-model black Prius. He's about thirty-five, buff built, got a big old bushy black beard, and he's wearing a raccoon mask and stripey prison shirt! Over!"

"Roger that, Deputy! That sure sounds suspicious. Stay on his trail!"

"Yessir, and please put out an ABA on him! Oh, and the Prius has Canadian plates on her!"

Blubs glanced at Stan. "Got a pencil?"

"Hold this." Stan handed him the gem and found a pen. "Here ya go."

Blubs handed the diamond back to him and took the pen. "Thanks. Got a piece of paper?"

Stan reached under the counter and pulled out a pad of sticky notes. Blubs used six of them, jotting down what Durland had said. Then he called in the APB—ABA was the American Booksellers' Association but Blubs was used to Durland and had understood what he meant—and Stan offered him the chair. "Thanks," the sheriff said again. "If Durland can catch that car, we'll find the missing diamond!"

"Yeah," Stan said, polishing the Pharaoh's Eye on his sleeve. "Good luck with that."

The jeweler showed up first. Ten minutes later, a rumpled Preston Northwest, appearing nettled at having been called away from his home at midnight, came in, saying, "There had better be a good reason for this!"

Stan held up the diamond. "Can you identify this?" he asked.

Northwest's face jerked into a strange expression, somewhere between outrage, shock, and fear. "That's the Pharaoh's Eye Diamond!" he exclaimed. "That's my property!"

"Yeah, yeah, worth a lot," Stan said.

"Millions!" Northwest exclaimed. "How did you—"

"I'm confused," Blubs admitted. "How'd you get hold of that, Mr. Northwest?"

Preston just stared at him silently.

Stan turned toward the jeweler. "Mr.—Stone, wasn't it?"

"Yes," the fourth man of their party, a thin, elderly sort with bushy white hair and an untidy mustache said in a gray sort of voice. "I'm not really sure why I'm here."

"Yeah, you ain't exactly part of the regular cast," Stan said, grinning. "But we need you tonight. Got your loupe on you?"

"Why—no, I wasn't told—"

"Borrow mine." Stan handed the jeweler a device like a pair of spectacles worn by a mad scientist in a horror movie—instead of simple lenses, they had two black barrels with complex magnifying lenses.

"Thank you. These are very nice," Stone said. "Uh—what am I examining?"

"Take a gander at this rock," Stan said, handing him the diamond.

"Now, this isn't necessary!" Northwest said hastily. "I can positively identify that as the priceless Pharaoh's Eye diamond—"

"Let the man do his work," Stan said. "We got him out of bed for this."

The jeweler barely glanced at the gem through the loupe. He removed the special spectacles and shook his head. "This is not a diamond at all," he said.

Northwest, his eyes wild, started to splutter—"Nonsense—doesn't know his business—any fool could see—worth millions!"

"No," Mr. Stone said firmly. "It's cubic zirconia. Very nicely cut and not inexpensive by any means, but at most it would sell for five thousand dollars."

Grinning broadly, Stan asked, "What was the tip-off?"

"Well," the jeweler said shyly, "a real diamond from ancient Egypt wouldn't have 'Made in Japan' engraved on its base in nearly microscopic letters."

"This man switched a fake for the real diamond!" Northwest thundered, pointing a quivering forefinger at Stan.

"Nope," Stan said. "I thought at first this was the real thing. Oh, I started to wonder when I visited the museum and noticed it sat on this tubey thing that shot real bright white light into it. That got me thinking, first time I saw it. A real diamond wouldn't need that secret boost of light to make it super-sparkly. I got so curious I had to check it to be sure, and sure enough, it was a fake all along."

Northwest blustered for thirty minutes, but finally he admitted the truth: His ancestor had stolen the diamond not from an Egyptian king, but from a New York bank. The owner had tucked it away in a safe-deposit box and never even checked on it. A bank official, Dewey Northwest, whose father was a major investor in the bank, had filched it in 1919, and ten years later, when the bank went bust in the Depression, the true owner of the diamond, a financier, had committed suicide. In the confusion and disorder, the bank itself had burned down, and no one had ever found the stone.

Dewey Northwest had an imitation made. The original he had re-cut into a dozen smaller diamonds. They had kept him from losing any of his fortune during the Depression, and when Dewey died, his brother out in Oregon had inherited everything. The recut diamonds had long since been sold, but the Oregon brother did inherit the fake.

And he had used the fake, together with the fake story that Dewey had concocted—the Egyptian expedition and all that rot—to persuade people that he was still rich, when in fact he was much less rich than he had been. Using the false diamond as collateral, Mr. Northwest had purchased a great deal of land in Gravity Falls Valley.

That had been Preston's grandfather. By the time Preston's father inherited, the Northwests were once again wealthy, both from their land investments and the businesses they had invested in. Eventually Preston had become the head of the Northwest clan, and, having no use for the fake diamond, he had loaned it to the Museum merely for the prestige.

"So," Stan said. "Now, we can do this one of two ways. You can press charges against me for stealin' this hunk of rock and probably send me to jail. Or—"

* * *

"What can I say?" Stan asked Wendy with a shrug. "Northwest took the second option. He refused to press charges, I returned the fake diamond and promised not to tell anybody what the Northwests had done—no talkin' about any of that, now, it was part of my plea bargain—and that's the end of that."

"They're gonna find out about me being with you, though," Wendy said.

"Nope. I told them I was a lone wolf. Even showed them some old business cards I have that say I'm a private investigator for an insurance company—that was my excuse, saying the company provided the museum's insurance. So in investigating the diamond, I was just protecting the company in case the diamond was ever stolen. Checking the security. Oh, wait, there's all the security tapes!"

"Stan!" Wendy gasped, panicking.

He laughed. "Which I accidentally erased while trying to turn off the dopey alarm. Relax, you're in the clear."

She slumped, heaving a relieved sigh. "Wow, man. I—dude, I'm really sorry. That the diamond wasn't real."

"Meh, easy come, ya know?" Stan chuckled. "Oh, yeah, Blubs called me this afternoon. Durland's stranded north of Oroville, Washington. Chased that imaginary black Prius all the way up until it crossed the border into British Columbia. Blubs has to wire him gas money so's Durland can get back home. Tell the truth, I think Blubs misses the patrol car more than the deputy."

After a few moments of silence, Stan added, "Wendy, you did good. My instincts were right on. Look at you—just a few days' training, and you pulled off a near-perfect heist."

She took a deep, shaky breath. "Thanks, man." Then she grinned. "So—what's our next caper?"

"There won't be one," Stan said. "When I was tellin' you that stuff—I'm an old man, I can go to jail, no waste, but you got your whole life ahead of you—it sounds damn corny now, but I meant it. Look, kid, I been to jail before, in the States, then south of the border—catch me drunk sometime and I may tell you about the horrors of bein' locked up in a Colombian prison. It's not worth the risk. Not for you."

Wendy smiled wistfully. "You know something, though? I liked it. It was exciting."

"Yeah, stays that way until you get caught and pull hard time. Think about this, Wendy. You can do damn near anything you put your mind to. I ain't lying to you. You're special. One of these days you're gonna get outa this little town and do something big and exciting and good. So, meantime, bear with your dad. Hey, that reminds me, I talked to him, and your grounding's off. You're a free woman."

"I'm not a woman yet," Wendy objected.

Stan lifted his can of Pitt Cola toward her as a kind of toast. "Don't kid yourself," he told her.

* * *

The End


End file.
